The  Mercy  of  the  Lord 


The  Mercy  of  the  Lord 


By 

Flora  Annie  Steel 

Author  of 
'  On  the  Face  of  the  Waters,'     «  A  Sovereign  Remedy,'     etc. 


New   York 
George  H.   Doran  Company 


Printed  in  Endand 


NEW  YORK;  GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY,  1914- 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  MERCY  OF  THE   LORD            1 

SALT  DUTY               13 

THE   WISDOM   OF   OUR   LORD   GAls^ESH     ...  35 

THE   SON   OF  A  KING          49 

THE  BIRTH  OF  FIRE            73 

THE   GIFT   OF   BATTLE         83 

THE   VALUE   OF   A   VOTE                   97 

SALT  OF  THE  EARTH          105 

AN   APPRECIATED  RUPEE                119 

THE   LAKE   OF  HIGH   HOPE              127 

RETAINING   FEES 141 

HIS   CHANCE              151 

THE   FLATTERER   FOR  GAIN            161 

A  maiden's  prayer        173 

SILVER  SPEECH  AND  GOLDEN  SILENCE   ...  187 

THE   FOOTSTEPS   OF   A   DOG            199 

THE   FINDING   OF   PRIVATE   FLANIGAN     ...  213 

REX    ET  IMP  :          225 

.;>  -(.i  <  f    *  J     t     ^  ' 


CONTENTS 


THEEE   AROSE   A  MAN 


DRY   GOODS 


THE  REGENERATION  OF  DAISY  BELL 


A   SONG  WITHOUT  WORDS 


SEGREGATION 


SLAVE  OF  THE  COURT       ... 


PAGE 

241 
..  251 

..  267 

,..  277 
..  289 
,.  301 


THE    MERCY    OF    THE    LORD 


"  God  movesn-a-mystere'rus  way 
Iswon-derstuper-f  orm. " 

Craddock  was  polishing  the  brass  of  his  safety  valve 
and  singing  the  while  at  high  pressure  between  set  teeth : 
his  choice  of  a  ditty  determined  by  one  of  his  transitory 
lapses  into  conventional  righteousness.  The  cause  of  which 
in  the  present  instance  being  an  equally  transient  admira- 
tion for  a  good  little  Eurasian  girl  fresh  from  her  convent. 

As  the  sun — ^which  shines  equally  on  the  just  and  the 
unjust — flamed  on  his  red  face  and  glowed  from  his  corn- 
coloured  beard  it  seemed  to  me — waiting  in  the  compara- 
tive coolth  of  the  pointsman's  mud-oven  shelter  till  the  one 
mail  train  of  the  day  should  appear  and  disappear,  leaving 
the  ribbon  of  rail  which  spanned  the  desert  world  to  its 
horizon  free  for  our  passaging — that  both  he  and  his  engine 
radiated  heat :  that  they  gave  outr— as  the  burning  bush  or 
the  flaming  swords  of  the  paradise-protectors  must  have 
given  out — a  message  of  fiery  warning  that  suited  the  words 
he  sang : 

"  Eplants  'isfootsteps-inthesea." 

Craddock  punctuated  the  rhythm  with  an  appropriate 
stop  of  shrill  steam  which  ought  to  have  startled  me :  but 
it  did  notj  because  my  outward  senses  had  suddenly  become 
slaves  to  my  memory.  The  desert  was  a  garden  full  of  cool 
fragrance  which  comes  with  the  close  of  an  Indian  day,  and 
the  only  sound  to  be  heard  in  it  was  a  glad  young  voice 
repeating  these  words : 

"  Oh  !  God  of  the  Battle  !     Have  mercy  !     Have  mercy  !    Have 
mercy !  " 

"Bravo!  young  Bertram!"  said  someone — even  those 
who  scarcely  knew  whether  Bertram  were  his  Christian 
or  his  surname  called  him  that — ''Easy  to  see  you're  fresh 
from  the  Higher  Standard." 

Young  Bertram  smiled  down  on  us  from  the  plinth  of  the 
marble  steps  leading  up  to  the  marble  summer  house  which 
stood  in  the  centre  of  this  Garden-of-Dead-Kings. 

▲ 


2  '•[  v'THE'Mill^Ci:   OF   THE  LOUD 


Po'sed  tbe-i^q  on*  his' pedestal,  holding  orb-like  in  his 
raised  right  hand  the  battered  bronze  cannon  ball  whose 
inscription — roughly  lettered  in  snaky  spirals — he  had  just 
translated,  young  Bertram  reminded  me  of  the  young  Apollo. 

''  You  bet,'^  he  answered,  gaily.  '^  But  what  does  it 
mean,  here  on  this  blessed  ball?  Who  knows  the  story? — 
for  there  is  one,  of  course." 

The  company  looked  at  me,  partly  because  as  a  civilian 
such  knowledge  was  expected  of  me ;  mostly  because  I  was 
responsible  for  the  invasion  of  this  peaceful  Eastern  spot 
by  a  restless,  curious  horde  of  Westerns ;  my  only  excuse 
for  the  desecration  being,  that  as  the  most  despicable 
product  of  our  Indian  rule,  a  grass  widower  bound  to  enter- 
tain, I  had  naturally  clutched  at  the  novelty  of  a  picnic 
supper  and  dance  some  few  miles  out  of  the  station. 

Perhaps,  had  I  seen  the  garden  first,  1  might  have 
relented,  but  I  took  it  on  trust  from  my  orderly,  who  assured 
me  it  held  all  things  necessary  for  my  salvation,  including 
a  marble  floor  on  which  a  drugget  could  be  stretched. 

It  held  much  more.  There  was  in  it  an  atmosphere — not 
all  orange  blossom  and  roses,  though  these  drugged  the 
senses — which  to  my  mind  made  a  touch  of  tragedy  lurk 
even  in  our  laughter. 

Though,  in  sooth,  we  brought  part  of  the  tragedy  with 
us :  for  a  frontier  war  was  on,  and  all  the  men  and  half  the 
women  present,  knew  that  the  route  might  come  any 
moment. 

Some  few — I,  as  chief  district  officer,  the  colonel  and  his 
adjutant — were  aware  that  it  probably  would  come  before 
morning:  but  ours  were  not  the  sober  faces.  Our  plans 
were  laid ;  all  things,  even  the  arrangements  for  the  women 
and  the  children  and  the  unfit-for-service,  were  cut  and 
dried :  but  the  certainty  that  someone  must — as  the  phrase 
runs — take  over  documents,  and  the  uncertainty  as  to  who 
the  unlucky  beggar  would  be,  lent  care  to  a  young  heart 
or  two. 

Not,  however,  to  young  Bertram.  As  he  stood  ques- 
tioning me  with  his  frank  blue  eyes,  even  the  w^hite 
garments  he  had  donned  (because,  he  said,  ''It  might  be  a 
beastly  time  before  he  wore  decent  togs  again")  told  the 


THE   MERCY   OF   THE  LOED  3 

same  tale  as  his  glad  voice — the  tale  of  that  boundless 
hope  which  holds  ever  the  greatest  tragedy  of  life. 

"Who  is  that  pretty  boyT'  said  a  low  soft  voice  at  my 
elbow. 

I  did  not  answer  the  spoken  question  of  the  voice,  but  as 
I  replied  to  the  unspoken  question  of  many  eyes  I  was 
conscious  that  of  all  the  many  incongruous  elements  I  had 
imported  into  that  Eastern  garden  this  Western  woman 
who  had  appraised  yoimg  Bertram's  beauty  was  the  most 
incongruous.  It  was  not  the  Paris  frock  and  hat,  purchased 
on  the  way  out — she  had  only  rejoined  her  husband  the  day 
before — ^which  made  her  so.  It  was  the  woman  inside  them. 
I  knew  the  type  so  well,  and  my  soul  rose  in  revolt  that 
she  should  soil  his  youth  with  her  approval. 

"I've  no  doubt  there  are  stories,"  I  replied;  "but  I 
don't  happen  to  know  them.  I'm  as  much  a  stranger  here 
as  you  all  are.  So  come  I  let  us  look  round  till  it's  dark 
enough  to  dance." 

"Dark  enough  to  sit  out,  he  means,"  said  someone  to 
the  Paris  frock  and  hat,  whereat  there  was  a  laugh,  but 
not  so  general  and  not  half  so  hearty  as  the  one  which 
greeted  young  Bertram's  gravity  as  he  replaced  the  cannon 
ball  on  the  plinth  with  the  profound  remark: 

"  Something  about  a  woman,  you  bet." 

"Do  introduce  me!"  pleaded  the  Paris  frock  and  hat 
as  the  lad  came  down,  bearing  the  brunt  of  chaff  gallantly  ; 
but  I  pretended  not  to  hear,  though  I  knew  such  diplomacy 
was  vain  with  women  of  her  type — women  whose  refinement 
makes  them  shameless. 

Yes !  she  was  a  strange  anomaly  in  that  garden, 
though,  Heaven  knows,  it  appealed  frankly  enough  to  the 
senses.  So  frankly  that  it  absorbed  even  such  meretricious 
Western  additions  as  cosy  corners  and  iced  champagne — on 
tables  laid  for  two — without  encroaching  a  hair's-breadth  on 
the  inviolable  spiritual  kingdom  of  the  ivory  orange 
blossom,  the  silver  jasmine  stars,  even  the  red  hearts  of  the 
roses. 

They  were  lighting  up  the  lines  of  the  cressets  about  the 
dancing  floor  when  we  began  to  reassemble,  and  as  each  star 
of  light  quivered  into  being,  the  misty  unreal  radiance  grew 

A  2 


4  THE  MERCY   OF   THE  LORD 

around  the  fretted  marble  of  the  summer  house  until  arch 
and  pilaster  seemed  to  lose  solidity,  and  the  whole  building, 
leaving  its  body  behind  in  shining  sleep,  found  freedom  as 
a  palace  of  dreams. 

And  there,  as  a  foreground  to  its  mystical  beauty,  wasB 
young  Bertram  dangling  his  long  legs  from  the  pedestal 
and  nursing  the  battered  old  bronze  ball  on  his  lap  as  if  it 
had  been  a  baby 

*'  I've  found  out  all  about  it,"  he  said,  cheerfully.  "  That 
chap" — he  pointed  to  a  figure  below  him — ''told  me  a 
splendid  yarn,  and  if  you  like," — he  turned  to  me — "  as 
they  haven't  done  lighting  up  j^et,  and  we  can't  dance  till 
they  finish,  he  could  tell  it  again.  I  could  translate,  you 
know,  for  those  who  can't  understand." 

The  innocent  pride  made  me  smile,  until  the  Paris  frock 
said,  '*!  shall  be  so  grateful  if  you  will,  Mr.  Bertram,"  in 
a  tone  of  soft  friendliness  which  proclaimed  her  success  and 
my  failure.  Both,  however,  I  recognised  were  inevitable 
when  I  remembered  that  she  was  the  wife  of  the  lad's 
captain,  a  silent,  bullet-headed  Briton  of  whom  he  chose 
to  make  a  hero — as  boys  will  of  older  men  who  are  not 
worthy  to  unlatch  their  shoes. 

The  figure  rose  and  salaamed.  It  was  that  of  a  pro- 
fessional snake  charmer,  who  had  evidently  come  in  hopes 
of  being  allowed  to  exhibit  his  skill:  for  his  flat  basket  of 
snakes,  slung  to  a  bambu  yoke,  lay  beside  him. 

"  And  it  was  about  a  woman,  as  I  said,"  continued  young 
Bertram,  with  the  same  innocent  pride.  ''She  was  of  his 
tribe — the  snaky  tribe,  and  so,  of  course,  he  knows  about 
it  aU." 

I  had  my  doubts — the  man  looked  a  cunning  scoundrel — 
but  there  was  an  awkward  five  minutes  to  fill  up,  so  chairs 
and  cushions  were  requisitioned,  and  on  them  and  the 
marble  steps  we  circled  round  to  listen:  the  Paris  dress, 
I  noticed,  choosing  the  latter,  close  to  the  translator. 

He  performed  his  task  admirably,  catching  not  only  the 
meaning  of  the  words  but  the  rhythm  of  the  snake  charmer's 
voice,  and  so  quickly,  too,  that  the  message  for  the  East, 
and  for  the  West,  seemed  one ;  yet  it  seemed  to  come  from 
neither  of  the  speakers. 


THE  MERCY   OF   THE  LORD  5 

'' '  Oh,  God  of  the  Battle  !  have  mercy,  have  mercy,  have 
mercy  ! '  Such  was  her  prayer  to  the  Bright  One,  and  this 
is  the  tale  of  it : 

"  Straight  was  her  soul  as  the  saraph  who  tempted  Eve- 
mother,  but  crooked  her  body  as  snakes  that  deal  death 
in  the  darkness — crookt  in  her  childhood — crookt  in  the 
siege  of  the  town  by  a  spent  shot  which  struck  her,  asleep 
in  her  cradle  (the  ball  that  you  nurse  on  your  knee,  sahib — 
they  found  it  beside  her — her  crushed  limbs  caressing  the 
foe  that  destroyed  her). 

"  She  grew  in  this  garden,  a  cripple,  but  fair  still  of 
face,  and  twice  cursed  in  such  gifts  of  beauty  all  barren 
and  bitter — so  bitter  she  veiled  it  away,  hiding  loveliness, 
hatefulness,  both,  from  the  eyes  of  the  others:  a  soul 
stricken  sore  ere  the  battle  began,  yet  insatiate  of  life, 
insatiate  of  blessing  and  cursing,  insatiate  of  power.  And, 
look  you !  she  gained  it !  Most  strangely,  for  fluttering 
through  thickets  like  birds  that  are  wounded  and  dragging 
herself  like  a  snake  to  the  blossoms,  she  threaded  the 
jasmine  to  necklets  and  pressed  out  the  roses  to  perfume, 
so  giving  to  women  uncrippled  love-lures  for  the  fathers 
of  sons. 

"Hid  in  the  jasmine  and  screened  by  the  trails  of  the 
roses,  here,  on  this  spot  stood  her  chamber  of  charm  for  the 
secret  distilling  of  itr,  the  silent  repeating  of  ritual,  the 
murmur  of  musical  mantras. 

"And  none  dare  to  enter  since  Death  lurked  unseen  in 
the  thickets,  and  serpents,  her  kinsmen,  slid  swift  to  the 
threshold  to  guard  it,  and  watched  with  still  eyes  her 
command. 

"'It  was  witchcraft,'  they  said,  with  a  shudder,  those 
fortunate  women,  yet  came  in  the  dusk  for  her  charms ! 

"  But  she  gave  them  not  always,  for  years  brought  her 
wisdom.  She  learnt  the  love  lore  of  the  flowers,  the  close 
starry  heart  of  the  jasmine,  the  open  red  heart  of  the  rose, 
told  their  dream  of  fair  death  through  the  ripening  of  seed, 
and  her  voice  would  grow  bitter  with  scorn.  .  .  . 

" '  Go  !  find  your  own  lures  for  your  lovers— I  work  for 
the  seed — for  the  harvest  of  men.' 


6  THE  MERCY   OF   THE  LORD 

"High  perched  on  the  wall  of  the  city  the  balcony 
women  waxed  wroth.  It  was  money  to  them  till  the  cripple 
who  fought  them  with  flowers  prevailed  in  the  battle  for 
life  to  the  world. 

''And  Narghiza,  the  chief  of  them  all,  felt  her  youth  on 
the  wane.  .  .  . 

"  So,  one  night  in  the  darkness,  ere  dawning,  men  crept  to 
the  garden  where  only  the  women  might  enter.  Men,  heated 
by  wine  and  by  lust,  inflamed  by  the  balcony  lies — yea ! 
the  witch  who  wrought  evil  to  all — who  had  killed  Gulandr 
in  her  prime  by  a  wasting — whose  frown  was  a  curse, 
must  be  reckoned  with,  killed,  and  her  devilish  chamber 
destroyed. 

"But  the  sound  of  the  rustling  leaves  as  the  snakes  slid 
soft  in  the  darkness  made  even  the  wine  bibbers  think,  so 
that  secret  and  soft  as  the  snakes  in  the  thickets  they 
crept  back  to  safety;  till  there — in  the  darkness,  the 
fragrance  of  flowers,  but  one  man  remained,  a  man  who 
grew  old  !  Beautiful,  tired  of  the  life  he  had  squandered, 
and  reckless,  yet  angered  because  of  the  girl  who  had 
wasted  to  death — a  girl  he  had  paid  for. 

"  '  Cowards ! '  he  said  with  a  smile,  and  crept  on  in  the 
dark.  A  rustle,  but  not  of  a  snake  !  In  the  leaves  a  faint 
glimmer  of  white,  and  a  voice — such  a  beautiful  voice  I 

"  'In  this  garden  of  women  what  seek  you,  my  lord? ' 

"  'I  seek  you,  for  your  death.'  But  as  swift  as  his  hand 
with  the  dagger,  around  him  there  rose  in  a  shimmering 
shelter  the  wide-hooded  curves  of  the  serpents,  their  still, 
watchful  eyes  giving  out  a  cold  gleaming  that  shone  like  a 
halo  about  her. 

"'What  harm  have  I  done?'  Such  a  beautiful  voice! 
'  Come  and  see,  if  you  will.' 

"On  his  head  fell  the  spent  leaves  of  roses,  the  frail 
stars  of  jasmine  were  hers  as  she  dragged  herself  on,  and 
he  followed  through  darkness  and  fragrance  and  flowers. 
The  serpents  lay  thick  on  the  threshold;  she  stayed  them 
with  this: 

"  'Wait,  friends,  till  he  touches  me.' 

"  Opened  the  door  and  said  scornfully: 


THE   MERCY   OF   THE  LORD  7 

'''There  stands  my  charm.' 

"  The  dim  light  of  the  cresset  showed  emptiness  save 
for  yon  ball  with  its  legend  ('tis  scratched,  as  you  see,  in 
the  shape  of  a  snake,  sahib).  She  read  it  aloud,  and  then 
turned  to  him: 

"  'Yea :  that  is  all :  I  appeal  to  the  God  of  the  Battle 
of  Life,  and  I  call  unto  Him  to  have  mercy,  have  mercy, 

have  mercy — What  mercy  He  chooses ' 

"Her  voice  sank  to  silence.  The  cresset's  dim  light 
showed  the  folds  of  her  veiling  to  him,  and  to  her  showed 
his  beauty  of  face  as  he  knelt  to  her  crippledom. 

"  '  Mercy  ! ' — his  voice  was  a  whisper — '  have  mercy — the 
charm  lies  within — let  me  see  it.  .  .  .' 

"His  hand  sought  the  folds  of  her  veil  and,  responsive, 
the  shelter  of  snakes  rose  about  her. 
"  '  Wait,  friends,  till  he  touches  me  ! ' 
"Swift,  with  quick  fear  in  it,  came  the  stern  warning, 
and  then  there  was  silence. 

"  Oh  !  beautiful  night  with  spent  stars  of  the  jasmine, 
spent  leaves  of  the  roses,  spent  life  nigh  to  death  'mid  its 
darkness,  its  fragrance. 

"  Oh  !  beautiful  face,  free  of  veiling  with  spent  stars  of 
eyes  and  spent  rose  leaves  of  lips. 
"' My  beloved  ! ' 

"Like  a  sigh  came  the  whisper,  and  slowly  as  stars  in 
the  evening  their  eyes  grew  to  brightness,  and  closer  and 
closer  their  lips  grew  to  kisses. 

"  '  Wait,  friends,  till  he  touches  me.' 

"  That  was  her  order,  and  swift  to  the  second,  the  snakes 
struck  between  them. 

"Oh,  beautiful  death  by  the  kiss  of  a  lover  1  Oh, 
merciful  poison  of  passion." 

The  sing-song  ceased,  and,  as  if  to  take  its  place,  the 
first  notes  of  the  Liehestraum  waltz  sounded  from  the  rose 
and  jasmine  thicket  in  which  the  band  had  been  concealed. 
"That's  a  mercy  of  the  Lord,  anyhow,"  laughed  some 
young  Philistine.  "I  thought  they'd  never  stop,  or  the 
band  begin ! " 

In  a  moment  the  listening  circle  had  changed  into  an 
eager  hurrying  of  couples  towards  the  dancing  floor. 


8  THE  MERCY   OF   THE   LORD 

But  young  Bertram  still  sat  on  the  pilaster  nursing  the 
old  bronze  ball,  his  glad  young  face  strangely  sober. 

''I  think  this  is  our  dance,"  said  the  Paris  frock,  in  a 
voice  of  icy  allurement  which  positively  rasped  my  nerves. 

Young  Bertram  sprang  to  the  ground  hastily. 

"I  beg  your  pardon!    By  George,  what's  that?" 

He  had  upset  one  of  the  snake  charmer's  flat  baskets, 
and  there  was  a  general  stampede  as  the  occupants  slid  out. 

''Don't  be  alarmed,"  I  cried,  ''they  always  have  their 
fangs  drawn,  and  he  will  get  them  back  in  a  moment." 

Even  as  I  spoke  the  hollow  quavering  of  the  charmer's 
gourd  flute  began,  and  three  snakes  stayed  their  flight  to 
sit  up  on  their  tails  and  sway  drowsily  to  the  rhythm. 

''There  was  a  fourth  one,  wasn't  there?"  said  young 
Bertram.     "It  slipped  our  way,  didn't  it?" 

He  spoke  to  the  Paris  frock,  which  had  taken  refuge  on 
the  opposite  pilaster,  so  that  the  whole  expanse  of  the  Avide 
marble  steps  now  lay  between  them. 

"Huzoor,  no!"  interrupted  the  owner  of  the  snakes, 
hastily,  "  there  were  but  three — there  could  only  have  been 
three — for  see!  my  serpents  obey  me." 

He  was  slipping  the  brutes  back  to  prison  again  as  he 
spoke,  but  I  noticed  his  eyes  were  restless. 

"Are  you  quite  sure? "  I  asked. 

He  gave  me  a  furtive  glance,  then  carelessly  held  up  a 
loathsome  five-footer.  "  Cobras  like  these  are  very  easily 
counted,  Huzoor;  besides,  as  the  Presence  said,  they  are 
all  f angle ss." 

The  one  whose  jaws  he  as  carelessly  prized  open  cer- 
tainly was,  and  I  should  have  dismissed  doubt  had  not 
young  Bertram  at  that  moment  taken  up  the  flute  gourd, 
and  with  the  gay  remark,  "Let  me  have  a  shot  at  it," 
commenced — out  of  fastidiousness  as  to  the  mouthpiece,  no 
doubt — to  blow  into  it  upside  down. 

I  never  saw  fear  better  expressed  in  any  face  than  on 
the  snake  charmer's  when  he  heard  the  indescribable  sound 
which  echoed  out  into  the  garden.  It  grew  green  as  with- 
out the  least  ceremony  he  snatched  the  instrument  away. 

"  The  Presence  must  not  do  that— the  snakes  do  not  like 
strangers." 


THE   MEECY   OF   THE   LORD  9 

Young  Bertram  laughed,  "  Nor  the  noise,  I  expect !  The 
beastly  thing  makes  a  worse  row  wrong  side  up  than  right— 
doesn't  it?" 

What  the  Paris  frock  replied  I  do  not  know,  as  they 
were  already  hurrying  up  to  make  the  most  of  the 
remaining  dance. 

Not  that  there  was  any  necessity  for  hurry  to  judge  by 
the  number  of  times  I  saw  his  white  raiment  and  her  fancy 
frills  floating  round  together  during  the  next  hour  or  so. 

The  Adjutant— a  man  I  particularly  disliked  (possibly 
because  he  seemed  to  me  the  antithesis  of  young  Bertram)— 
remarked  on  it  also  when  he  found  me  out  seeking  solitude 
in  one  of  the  latticed  minarets. 

''Going  it!"  he  said,  cynically.  "He  won't  be  quite 
such  a  young  fool  when  he  comes  down  from  the  hills." 

I  turned  on  him  in  absolute  dismay.  "The  hills?  but 
surely  you're  going  on  serv^ice?  " 

The  Adjutant  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "  Someone  has 
to  take  over,  and  he'll  soon  console  himself." 

I  felt  I  could  have  kicked  him,  and  was  glad  that  the 
"Roast  Beef"  called  me  to  my  duties  as  host. 

They  had  laid  the  supper  table  where  we  had  listened 
to  the  snake  charmer's  chant;  somehow  through  all  the 
laughter  I  seemed  to  hear  that  refrain  going  on:  "Oh! 
God  of  the  Battle  !  have  mercy  !  have  mercy  !  have  mercy !  " 
What  mercy  would  she  show  him?  None.  And  what 
chance  would  he  have  in  an  atmosphere  like  that  of 
Semoorie?  None.  Even  the  husband,  whom  rumour  said 
was  bullet-headed  to  some  purpose,  would  be  away. 

We  were  very  merry  in  spite,  or  perhaps  because  of,  an 
insistent  trend  of  thought  towards  impending  change,  and 
I  was  just  about  to  propose  the  health  of  my  guests  with 
due  discreet  allusion  to  the  still  doubtful  future  when  it 
was  settled  by  the  appearance  of  a  telegraph  peon. 

In  the  instant  hush  which  followed,  I  observed  irrele- 
vantly that  our  brief  feasting  had  made  a  horrid  mess  of 
what  not  half  an  hour  before  had  seemed  food  for  the  gods  ! 
Then  the  Colonel  looked  up  with  a  grim  conscious  smile 
which  fitted  ill  with  the  fragrant  lantern-lit  garden  behind 
him. 


10  THE  MERCY   OF   THE  LORD 

"  The  route  has  come,  gentlemen,  we  start  to-morrow 
at  noon." 

He  checked  a  quick  start  to  their  feet  on  the  part  of 
some  of  the  youngsters  by  addressing  himself  to  me : 

''  But  as  everything  has  been  cut  and  dry  for  some  days 
we  needn't  spoil  sport  yet  awhile.  There's  time  for  a 
dance  or  two." 

''In  that  case  I'll  go  on,"  I  replied,  ''and  with  greater 
will  than  ever." 

Somehow  it  never  struck  me  what  was  likely  to  happen, 
seeing  that  young  Bertram  was  junior  subaltern  and  in 
addition  the  pride  of  his  fellows,  until  I  heard  the  calls 
for  "our  speaker"  to  return  thanks.  He  had  been  sitting, 
of  course,  next  to  the  Paris  frock,  and  beside  him  had  been 
the  Adjutant,  looking,  I  had  noticed,  as  if  he  thought  he 
ought  to  be  in  young  Bertram's  place.  I  wish  to  God  he 
had  been. 

They  both  rose  at  the  same  moment;  the  Adjutant  to 
work,  no  doubt — for,  pushing  his  chair  back,  he  left  the 
table ;  young  Bertram  to  his  task  of  responding. 

I  saw  at  once  that  he  knew  his  fate.  I  think  he  had 
that  instant  been  told  of  it  by  the  Adjutant:  and  perhaps 
in  a  way  it  was  wiser  and  kinder  to  tell  him  before — ^so  to 
speak — he  gave  himself  away. 

He  stood  for  an  appreciable  time  as  if  dazed,  then  pulling 
himself  together,  spoke  steadily,  if  a  trifle  artificially. 

"Mr.  Commissioner,  Ladies,  and  Gentlemen!  I  thought 
a  minute  ago  that  I  was  the  last  person  to  return  thanks 
for  our  host's  regrets  and  good  wishes.  I  know  now  that 
I  am  really  the  only  person  in  the  regiment  who  could  do 
it  honestly;  because  I  am  the  only  person  who  can  sj^m- 
pathise  with  him  thoroughly — who  can,  like  he  does,  regret 
the  regiment's  departure,  and — and  at  the  same  time  give 
it  God-speed,  while  I — I " 

He  paused,  and  suddenly  the  strenuous  effort  after  con- 
ventional banalities  left  his  young  face  free  to  show  its 
grief — almost  its  anger. 

"It's  no  use  my  trying  to  talk  bosh,"  he  broke  out,  and 
swept  away  by  realities:  "As  you  know,  I'd  give  every- 
thing not  to  say  God-speed,  but  I  suppose  I  must." 


THE  MERCY   OF   THE   LORD  11 

And  then  a  sudden  remembrance  seemed  to  come  to 
him,  he  turned  in  swift  impulse,  his  face  alight,  leapt  to 
the  pedestal  behind  him,  and  there  he  was  again  wath  that 
blessed  battered  old  ball  in  his  raised  right  hand. 

'•And  I  don't  think  I  can  do  it  better  than  this  does  it. 

This "  his  voice  had  the  notes  of  life's  divine  tragedy 

of  hope  in  it— ''fits  us  all— fits  everything '.—And  so,"  his 
eyes  sought  mine,  "we  thank  you,  sir,  for  all  and  every- 
thing, and  wish  that  the  God  of  the  Battle  may  have  mercy 
all  round." 

For  a  second  he  stood  there,  almost  triumphant,  beau- 
tiful as  a  god,  below  him  the  guttering  candles  and  disorder 
of  the  supper  table,  above  him  the  stars  of  heaven :  then, 
with  a  light  laugh,  he  was  calling  for  the  band  to  begin 
and  heading  the  hurried  return  to  the  dancing  floor. 

As  he  passed  me,  gallant  and  gay,  I  heard  the  Paris 
frock  quote  in  a  consoling  whisper,  "They  also  serve  who 
only  stand  and  wait." 

The  grateful  admiration  of  his  eyes  told  the  delicacy  of 
her  art.  I  realised  this  again  when  shortly  after  I  had 
an  opportunity  for  one  word  of  consolation  also. 

"She  said  that,  too,"  he  replied,  hw  voice  trembling 
a  little.  "  She's  been  awfully  good  to  me,  you  know— but 
so  you  all  are — and  I  daresay  it  is  all  right." 

I  knew  that  to  be  impossible,  but  I  resolved  to  do  my 
level  best  to  protect  him. 

Then  my  duties  claimed  me.  Despite  the  Colonel's 
coolness,  the  party  began  to  drift  aw^ay  to  preparations, 
their  measure  of  responsibility  shown  by  the  order  of  their 
going,  until  only  a  dozen  or  so  of  lighthearted  youngsters 
were  left  for  another  and  yet  another  waltz,  the  prime 
instigator  of  delay  being,  of  course,  young  Bertram. 

I  never  saw  the  lad  look  better.  An  almost  reckless 
vitality  seemed  to  radiate  from  and  invade  the  still  scented 
peace  of  the  whole  garden. 

I  found  myself  trying  to  evade  it  by  wandering  off  to 
the  furthest,  stillest  corner,  where  I  could  smoke  in  peace 
till  called  on  finally  to  say  good-night— or  good-morning— 
to  my  guests. 

I  must  have  fallen  asleep  in  one  of  the  latticed  minarets, 


12  THE  MERCY   OF   THE   LORD 

and  slept  long,  for  when  I  woke  a  grey  radiance  was  in 
the  sky  that  showed  above  the  scented  orange  trees.  Dawn 
was  breaking,  the  garden  held  no  sound  save  a  faint  rustle 
as  of  leaves.  And  not  a  sign  remained  of  Western  intrusion. 
The  swiftness  of  Indian  service  had  taken  away  as  it  had 
brought.  As  I  made  my  way  to  where  we  had  danced  and 
supped,  the  immediate  past  seemed  a  dream,  and  I  strained 
my  eyes  into  the  starred  shadows  of  the  jasmine  thicket 
half  expecting  to  see  a  white  veil  creeping  like  a  snake. 

What  was  that?  I  had  no  time  to  find  fancy  or  fact — 
my  eyes  had  caught  sight  of  something  unmistakable  at  the 
foot  of  the  marble  pedestal. 

It  was  young  Bertram. 

He  was  lying  as  if  asleep,  his  cheek  caressing  the 
battered  bronze  ball  that  he  had  encircled  with  his  arms. 

His  face  turned  up  to  the  stars  showed  nothing  but 
content. 

•X-  -x-  -x-  *  * 

He  must  have  stayed  on  after  the  others  had  gone, 
probably  to  think  things  out — the  legend  of  appeal  must 
have  drawn  him  back  to  the  very  spot  where  the  snake 
charmer's  basket  had  been  upset — like  it  had  to  me,  the 
fragrant  peace  must  have  brought  to  his  weariness  sleep. 

For  the  rest.  Had  there  really  been  a  fourth  snake  1 
Was  it  true  that  serpents  always  revenged  themselves  for 
wrong  charming?  Or  were  those  two  faint  blood  spots 
on  the  rose  leaves  of  young  Bertram's  lips  .... 

*  *  *  -x  * 

"An  'E'  willmakeit-plain." 

Craddock's  rolling  baritone  mingled  with  a  shriek  of 
steam  welcoming  a  swift  speck  on  the  horizon. 

With  a  roar  and  a  rush  it  was  on  us,  past  us. 

''  Ef  that  'ymn  'ad  bin  wrote  these  times,  sir,"  remarked 
Craddock  blandly,  as  he  turned  on  steam,  'Hhe  h'author 
might  'ave  put  in  a  H'engin.  There  ain't  anythin'  more 
mysterious  in  its  goin's  on — except  per'aps  wimmen.  I'd 
ruther  trust  for  grace  to  the  mercy  o'  the  Lord  than  to 
them  any  day.'' 


SALT    DUTY 


'*Lo!  nigh  on  fifty  years  have  passed  since  that  dark 
night;  just  such  a  night  as  this,  0  1  Children-of-the-Master ! 
and  yet  remembering  the  sudden  yell  of  death  -which  rose 
upon  the  still  air — just  such  an  air  as  this,  hot  and  still.  .  .  . 
Nay !  fear  not,  Children-of-the-Master !  since  I,  Iman  (the 
faithful  one  so  named  and  natured),  watch,  as  I  watched 
then  .  .  .  and  yet,  I  say,  the  hair  upon  my  head  which 
then  grew  thick  and  now  is  bald,  the  down  upon  my  skin 
which  then  was  bloom  and  now  is  stubble,  starts  up  even 
as  I  started  to  my  feet  at  that  dread  cry,  and  catching 
Sonny-&a6a  in  my  arms  fled  to  the  safer  shadows  of  the 
garden.     And  the  child  slept.  ..." 

The  voice,  declamatory  yet  monotonous,  paused  as  if 
the  speaker  listened. 

"It  is  always  so  with  the  Master-Children,"  it  went  on, 
tentatively,  '^  they  sleep.  .  .  ." 

The  second  and  longer  pause  which  ensued  allowed  soft 
breathings  to  be  heard  from  the  darkness,  even,  unmis- 
takable, and  when  the  voice  continued  something  of  the 
vainglorious  tone  of  the  raconteur  had  been  replaced  by  a 
note  of  resignation. 

''And  wherefore  not,  my  friends,  seeing  that  as  masters 
they  know  no  fear?  " 

Wherefore,  indeed? 

Iman  Khan,  whilom  major-domo  to  many  sahibs  of  high 
degree,  now  in  his  old  age  factotum  to  the  Eurasian  widow 
and  children  of  a  conservancy  overseer,  asked  himself  the 
question  boldly.  Yet  the  heart  which  beat  beneath  the 
coarse  white  muslin  coatee  starched  to  crackle-point  in 
the  effort  to  conceal  the  poorness  of  its  quality,  felt  a 
vague  dissatisfaction. 

In  God's  truth  the  memory  of  the  great  Mutiny  still 
sent  his  old  blood  shivering  through  his  veins,  and  some 
of  the  tribe  of  black-and-tan  boys  who  slept  around  him 


16  SALT   DUTY 

in  the  darkness  were  surely  now  old  enough  to  thrill, 
helplessly  responsive,  to  the  triumphal  threnody  of  their 
race  1 

Yet  it  was  not  so.  The  tale,  on  the  contrary,  was  a  sure 
sleep-compeller;  indeed,  he  was  never  able  to  reach  his 
own  particular  contribution  to  the  sum  total  of  heroism 
before  sleep  came — except  in  his  own  dreams !  There  he 
remembered,  as  he  remembered  so  many  things.  How  to 
decorate  a  ham,  for  instance — though  it  was  an  abomination 
to  the  Lord  ! — how  to  ice  champagne — though  that  also  was 
damnable  ! — when  to  say  "  Not  at  home,"  or  dismiss  a  guest 
by  announcing  the  carriage — though  these  were  foreign  to 
him,  soul  and  body. 

Out  there,  beyond  the  skimp  verandah,  amid  the  native 
cots  set  in  the  dusky  darkness  in  hopes  of  a  breath  of 
fresher  air,  old  Iman's  imagination  ran  riot  in  etiquette. 

And  yet  the  faint  white  glimmer  of  the  Grand  Trunk 
Eoad  which  showed  beyond  the  cots  was  not  straighter, 
more  unswerving  than  the  Mdnsdman's  creed  as  to  the 
correct  card  to  play  in  each  and  every  circumstance  of 
domestic  life. 

His  present  mistress,  a  worthy  soul  of  the  most  doubtful 
Portuguese  descent,  knew  this  to  her  cost.  It  was  a  relief, 
in  fact,  for  her  to  get  away  at  times  from  his  determination, 
for  instance,  to  have  what  he  called  *'  sikkens  "  for  dinner. 
But  then  she  did  not  divide  her  world  into  the  sheep  who 
always  had  a  savoury  second  course  in  their  menu,  and  the 
goats  who  did  not.    To  him  it  was  the  crux  of  social  position. 

So,  an  opportunity  of  escape  having  arisen  in  the  mortal 
illness  of  a  distant  relation,  she  had  gone  off  for  a  week's 
holiday  full  of  tears  and  determination,  while  away,  to  eat 
as  much  sweet  stuff  as  she  chose,  leaving  Iman  Khan  in 
charge  of  the  quaint  little  bastion  of  the  half-ruined 
caravanserai  in  which  she  was  allowed  free  quarters  in 
addition  to  her  pension. 

He  was  relieved  also.  He  had,  in  truth,  a  profound 
contempt  for  her ;  but  as  this  was  palpably  the  wrong  game, 
he  covered  his  disapproval  with  an  inflexible  respect  which 
allowed  no  deviation  from  duty  on  either  side.  Yet  it  was 
a  hard  task  to  keep  the  household  straight.     Sometimes 


SALT   DUTY  17 

even  Iman's  solid  belief  in  custom  as  all-sufficing  wavered, 
and  he  half  regretted  having  refused  the  offers  of  easier 
services  made  him  by  rich  natives  anxious  to  ape  the 
manner  of  the  alien.  But  it  was  only  for  a  moment.  The 
claims  of  the  white  blood  he  had  served  all  his  life,  as  his 
forbears  had  before  him,  were  paramount,  and  whatever 
his  faults,  the  late  E-stink  Sahib,  conservancy  overseer, 
had  been  white— or  nearly  so !  Did  not  his  name  prove 
it?  Had  not  Warm  E-stinh  Sahih  (Warren  Hastings)  left 
a  reputation  behind  him  in  India  for  all  time  1  Yea !  he 
had  been  a  real  master.  The  name  was  without  equal  in 
the  land— save,  perhaps,  that  which  came  from  the  great 
conqueror,  Jullunder  (Alexander). 

Undoubtedly,  E-stinh  Sahih  had  been  white ;  so  it  was 
a  pity  the  children  took  so  much  after  their  mother ;  more 
and  more  so,  indeed,  since  the  baby  girl  born  after  her 
father's  death  was  the  darkest  of  the  batch.  It  was  as 
if  the  white  blood  had  run  out  in  consequence  of  the 
constant  calls  upon  it.  For  Elflida  Norma,  the  eldest  girl— 
they  all  had  fine  names  except  the  black  baby,  whom  that 
incompetent  widow  had  called  Lily — was  .... 

Ah!  what  was  not  Elflida  Normal  The  old  man, 
drowsing  in  the  darkness  after  a  hard  day  of  decorum, 
wandered  off  still  more  dreamily  at  the  thought  of  his 
darling.  She  did  not  sleep  out  on  the  edge  of  the  high 
road.  Her  sixteen  years  demanded  other  things.  Ah  !  so 
many  things.  Yet  the  Incompetent  one  could  perceive  no 
difference  between  the  claims  of  the  real  Mis s->Sa/ii5a— that 
is,  E-stink  Sahib's  own  daughter  by  a  previous  wife— and 
those  of  the  girl-brat  she  herself  had  brought  to  him  by 
a  previous  husband,  and  whom  she  had  cheerfully  married 
off  to  a  black  man  with  a  sahib's  hat !  For  this  was  Iman 
Khan's  contemptuous  classification  of  Xavier  Castello,  on© 
of  those  unnecessarily  dark  Eurasians  who  even  in  the 
middle  of  the  night  are  never  to  be  seen  without  the  huge 
pith  hats,  which  they  wear,  apparently,  as  an  effort  at 
race  distinction. 

The  Incompetent  one  was  quite  capable  of  carrying 
through  a  similar  marriage  for  the  Miss-Sahiba.  Horrible 
thought  to  Iman;   all   the  more  horrible  because  he  was 


B 


18  SALT   DUTY 

powerless  to  provide  a  proper  husband.  He  could  insist 
on  savouries  for  dinner;  he  could  say  ''the  door  is  shut" 
to  undesirable  young  men ;  he  could  go  so  far  in  weddings 
as  to  provide  a  suffer  (supper)  and  a  wedding  cake  (here 
his  wrinkles  set  into  a  smile),  but  only  God  could  produce 
the  husband,  especially  here  in  this  mere  black-man's  town 
where  sahibs  lived  not.  Where  sahibs  did  not  even  seek 
a  meal  or  a  night's  rest  in  these  evil  days  when  they  were 
whisked  hither  and  thither  by  rail  trains  instead  of  going 
decently  by  road. 

Through  the  darkness  his  dim  eyes  sought  the  opposite 
bastion  of  the  serai.  In  the  olden  days  any  moment  might 
have  brought  someone 

But  those  days  were  past.  It  would  need  a  miracle  now 
to  bring  a  sahib  out  of  a  post  carriage  to  claim  accommoda- 
tion there.     Yea !  a  real  heaven-sent  car  must  come. 

Still,  God  v/as  powerful.  If  he  chose  to  send  one,  ther© 
might  be  a  real  wedding — such  a  wedding  as — there  had 
been — when — he  .... 

So,  tired  out,  Iman  was  once  more  in  his  dreams 
decorating  hams,  icing  champagne,  and  giving  himself 
away  in  the  intricacies  of  sugar-piping. 

When  he  woke,  it  was  with  a  sense  that  he  had  some- 
how neglected  his  duty.  But  no  !  In  the  hot  dry  darkness 
there  was  silence  and  sleep.  Even  Lily-&aba  had  her  due 
share  of  Horatio  Menelaus'  bed.  He  rose,  and  crept  with 
noiseless  bare  feet  to  peep  in  through  the  screens  of 
Elflida  Norma' s  tiny  scrap  of  a  room  that  was  tacked  on 
to  the  one  decent-sized  circular  apartment  in  the  bastion, 
like  a  barnacle  to  a  limpet.  One  glance,  even  by  the  dim 
light  of  the  cotton  wick  set  in  a  scum  of  oil  floating  on  a 
tumbler  of  water,  showed  him  that  she  was  no  longer  where 
an  hour  or  two  before  he  had  left  her  safe. 

Without  a  pause  he  crept  on  across  the  room  and  looked 
through  the  door  at  its  opposite  end,  which  gave  on  the 
arcaded  square  of  the  serai. 

All  was  still.  Here  and  there  among  the  ruined  arches 
a  twinkling  light  told  of  some  wayfarer  late  come,  and 
from  the  shadows  a  mixed  bubbling  of  hookahs  and  camels 
could  be  heard  drowsily. 


SALT    DUTY  19 

She  was  not  there,  however,  as  he  had  found  her  some- 
times, listening  to  a  bard  or  wandering  juggler;  for  she 
was  not  as  the  others,  tame  as  cows,  but  rather  as  the 
birds,  wild  and  flighty.  So  he  passed  on,  out  through 
the  massive  doorway,  built  by  dead  kings,  and  stood  once 
more  on  the  white  gleam  of  the  road,  listening.  From 
far  down  it,  nearer  the  town,  came  the  unmelodious  hee- 
haw of  a  concertina  played  regardless  of  its  keys. 

"  Hee,  hee,  haw  1    Haw,  hee,  hee  !  " 

His  old  ear  knew  the  rhythm.  That  was  the  dance  in 
which  the  sahib-logue  kicked  and  stamped  and  laughed. 
This  was  Julia  Castello's  doing.  There  was  a  ^'nautch" 
among  the  black  people  with  the  sahib's  hats,  and  the 
Miss-Sahiha — his  Miss-Sahiha — had  been  lured  to  it ! 

Once  more,  without  a  pause,  the  instinct  as  to  the  right 
thing  to  do  coming  to  him  with  certainty,  he  turned  aside 
to  his  cook-room,  and,  lighting  a  hurricane  lantern,  began 
to  rummage  in  a  battered  tin  box,  which,  bespattered  still 
with  such  labels  as  '^  Wanted  on  the  Voyage,"  proclaimed 
itself  a  perquisite  from  some  past  services. 

So,  ten  minutes  afterwards,  a  starched  simulacrum  of 
what  had  once  been  a  Chief  Commissioner's  butler  (even 
to  a  tarnished  silver  badge  in  the  orthodox  headgear 
shaped  like  a  big  pith  quoit)  appeared  in  the  verandah  of 
Mrs.  Castello's  house,  and,  pointing  with  dignity  to  the 
glimmer  of  a  hurricane  lantern  in  the  dusty  darkness  by 
the  gate,  said,  as  he  produced  a  moth-eaten  cashmere 
opera-cloak  trimmed  with  moulting  swansdown: 

''As  per  previous  order,  the  Miss-Sahiba's  ayah  hath 
appeared  for  her  mistress,  w^ith  this  slave  as  escort." 

Elflida  Norma,  a  dancing  incarnation  of  pure  mischief, 
looked  round  angrily  on  the  burst  of  noisy  laughter  which 
followed,  and  the  pausing  stamp  of  her  foot  was  not 
warranted  by  the  polka. 

"Why  you  laugh?"  she  cried,  passionately.  ''He  is 
my  servant — he  belongs  to  our  place." 

Then,  turning  to  the  deferential  figure,  her  tone  changed, 
and  she  drew  herself  up  to  the  full  of  her  small  height. 

"Nikul  jao!"  she  said,  superbly;  which,  being  inter- 
preted, is  the  opprobrious  form  of  "get  you  gone." 

B  2 


20  SALT    DUTY 

The  old  man's  instinct  had  told  him  aright.  There, 
amid  that  company,  the  girl  in  the  white  muslin  she  had 
surreptitiously  pinned  into  the  semblance  of  a  ball  dress, 
her  big  blue  eyes  matching  the  tight  string  of  big  blue 
beads  about  her  slender  throat,  showed  herself  apart 
absolutely,  despite  her  dark  hair  and  almost  sallow 
complexion. 

''The  Huzoor  has  forgotten  the  time,"  said  Iman, 
imperturbably ;  ''it  is  just  twelve  o'clock,  and  Sin-an-hella 
dances  of  this  description" — here  he  looked  round  at  the 
squalid  preparations  for  supper  with  superlative  scorn — 
"always  close  at  midnight." 

There  was  something  so  almost  appalling  in  the 
answering  certainty  of  his  tone  regarding  Cinderellas,  that 
even  Mrs.  Castello  hesitated,  looking  round  helplessly  at 
her  guests. 

"In  addition,"  added  the  old  man,  following  up  the 
impression,  "is  not  the  night  Saturday?  and  even  in  the 
great  Lat-Sahih's  house,  where  I  have  served,  was  there  no 
nautch  on  Saturdays — excepting  Sin-an-hellas." 

He  yielded  the  last  point  graciously,  but  the  concession 
was  even  more  confounding  to  Mrs.  Castello  than  his 
previous  claim.  Besides,  old  Iman's  darkling  allusion  to 
service  with  a  Governor-General  was  a  well-known  danger- 
signal  to  the  whole  Hastings  family,  including  Elflida 
Norma,  who  now  hesitated  palpably. 

"I  fought  you  more  wise,"  insinuated  her  partner,  who 
had  actually  laid  aside  his  hat  for  the  polka,  "than  to 
have  such  a  worn-out  poor  fellow  to  your  place.  Pay  no  heed 
to  him,  Miss  'Astin',  and  polk  again  once  more." 

Elflida  drew  herself  away  from  his  encircling  arm 
haughtily. 

"No,  thanks,"  she  drawled,  her  sm.all  head,  with  its 
short  curls  in  air.  "I  am  tired  of  polking — and  he  is  a 
more  better  servant  than  your  people  have  in  your  place, 
anyhow." 

"  But  Elfie  !  "  protested  Mrs.  Castello. 

The  girl  interrupted  her  step-sister  with  an  odd 
expression  in  her  big  blue  eyes. 


SALT    DUTY  21 

^'It  will  be  Sunday,  as  he  says,  Julia;  besides,  the 
princess  always  goes  home  first  from  a  Cinderella,  you 
know,  because " 

"Because  why?"  inquired  Mrs.  Castello,  fretfully; 
'Hhat  will  be  some  bob-dash  from  the  silly  books  she 
adores  so  much,  Mr.  Rosario." 

Elflida  stood  for  a  moment  smiling  sweetly,  as  it  were 
appraising  all  things  she  saw,  from  the  greasy  tablecloth 
on  the  supper  table  to  old  Iman's  starched  purity;  from 
the  cocoanut  oil  on  the  head  of  one  admirer,  to  the 
tarnished  silver  sign  of  service  on  the  head  of  the  other. 

"Because  she  was  a  princess,  of  course,"  she  replied, 
demurely;  and  straightway  stooped  her  white  shoulders 
for  the  yoke  of  cashmere  and  swansdown  with  a  dignity 
which  froze  even  Mr.  Rosario's  remonstrance. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  loftily  in  the  verandah,  when 
he  suggested  escort;  "but  my  ayah  and  my  bearer  are 
sufficient.     Good-night." 

So  down  the  pathway,  inches  deep  in  dust,  she  walked 
sedately  towards  the  glimmer  of  the  lantern  by  the  gate, 
followed  deferentially  by  Iman.  But  only  so  far;  for  once 
within  the  spider's  web  halo  round  the  barred  light,  she 
sprang  forward  with  a  laugh.  The  next  instant  all  w^as 
dark.  Cimmerian  darkness  indeed  to  the  old  man  as  he 
struggled  with  the  moulting  swansdown  and  moth-eaten 
cashmere  she  had  flung  over  his  head. 

"  Miss-»8'a/ii6a  !  Miss-ba&a  !  norty,  norfy  girl!"  he  cried 
after  her,  desperately,  in  his  double  capacity  of  escort  and 
ayah.  Then  he  consoled  himself  with  the  reflection  that 
it  was  but  a  bare  quarter  of  a  mile  to  the  serai  along  a 
straight  deserted  high  road.  Even  a  real  Miss-Sahiba 
might  go  so  far  alone,  unhurt;  so,  after  pausing  a  moment 
from  force  of  habit  to  re-light  the  lantern,  he  ambled  after 
his  charge  as  fast  as  his  old  legs  could  carry  him. 
Suddenly  he  heard  a  noise  such  as  he  had  never  heard 
before  close  behind  him.  A  horrid,  panting  noise,  and 
then  something  between  a  bellow  and  a  whistle.  He 
turned,  saw  a  red  eye  glaring  at  him,  and  the  next  instant 
the  infernal  monster  darted  past  him,  whirring,  snorting. 
In  pursuit,  of  course,  of  Elflida  Norma ! 


22  SALT    DUTY 

What  tyranny  was  here !  What  defiance  of  custom  1 
Saw  anyone  ever  the  like? — on  a  decent  metalled  road — 
and  only  the  ayah— God  forgive  him  the  lie ! — wanting  to 
make  all  things  in  order  1 

These  confused,  helpless  thoughts  ran  swifter  in  the  old 
man's  mind  that  his  legs  carried  his  body,  as  he  followed 
in  pursuit  of  the  monster.  The  lantern,  swinging  wildly, 
hindered  such  light  as  there  might  have  been  without  it, 
but  he  knew  the  Thing  was  ahead  of  him,  by  the  truly 
infernal  smell  it  left  behind  it. 

And  then  from  the  darkness  ahead  came  a  curiously 
familiar  cry,  "  Hut,  hut !  (get  out  of  the  way).     Oh,  danm  !  " 

A  crash  followed ;  then  silence.  A  few  seconds  after- 
wards he  was  gazing,  helplessly  bewildered,  at  two  figures 
who  were  looking  at  each  other  wrathfully  across  the  white 
streak  of  road. 

One  he  knew.  It  was  Elflida  Norma,  her  impromptu 
ball  dress  metamorphosed  by  her  race  into  loose  white 
draperies  out  of  which  the  small  dark  head  and  slim  throat, 
with  its  circlet  of  big  blue  beads^  rose  as  from  clouds.  The 
other,  unknown,  was  that  of  a  tall,  fair  young  man. 

"If  you  had  only  stood  still,"  the  latter  was  saying 
angrily,   "I  could  have  managed,   but  you  dodged  about 

like — like "    His  eyes  had  taken  her  in  by  this  time, 

and  he  paused  in  his  simile.  But  hers  had  wandered  to 
the  monster  prone  in  the  dust;  and  she  stepped  closer  to 
it  curiously. 

"I  suppose  it  is  named  a  motor  bicycle,"  she  said, 
coolly.  ''I  have  not  seen  one  in  our  place  before,  only 
in  picture  books.     I  am  glad." 

There  were  no  regrets  or  apologies.  And  even  Iman 
Khan,  when  he  recovered  his  breath,  made  no  inquiries 
as  to  whether  the  young  man  had  hurt  himself  in  getting 
out  of  the  Miss-Sahiba's  way  He  simply  looked  at  the 
wheels  of  the  bicycle  and  then  at  its  stalwart  young  rider. 

God  had  been  kind  and  sent  a  husband  in  a  miraculous 
car ! 


SALT   DUTY  23 


n 


Iman  Khan  sate  in  the  early  dawn,  putting  such  polish 
as  never  before  was  put  on  a  pair  of  rather  large  size 
Oxford  shoes.  So  far  all  had  gone  well.  His  own  vast 
experience,  aided  by  the  stranger's  complete  ignorance  of 
Indian  ways,  had  sufficed  for  much;  and  Alexander 
Alexander  Sahib  (all  the  twelve  Imans  be  praised  for  such 
a  name !)  was  now  comfortably  asleep  in  the  bastion 
opposite  the  widow's  quarters,  under  the  impression  that 
the  hastily  produced  whisky  and  soda,  with  a  '^  sand  beef  " 
(sandwich)  in  case  hunger  had  come  on  the  road,  the  simple 
but  clean  bedding,  and  briefly,  all  the  luxuries  of  a  night's 
sleep  after  a  somewhat  severe  shaking,  were  due  to  the 
commercial  instincts  of  a  good  old  chap  in  charge  of  the 
usual  rest-house:  that  being  exactly  v/hat  Imdn  had 
desired  as  a  beginning. 

The  sequel  required  thought,  and,  as  he  polished,  his 
brain  was  full  of  plans  for  the  immediate  future.  One 
thing  was  certain,  however,  quite  certain.  The  husband 
God  had  sent  in  a  car  must  not  be  allowed  to  ride  away 
on  it  before  seeing  more  of  the  'Miss-Sahiha.  Arrangements 
must  be  made,  as  they  always  had  to  be  made  in  the  best 
families.  Generally  it  began  with  a  tennis  party — but 
this,  of  course,  was  out  of  the  question — and  perhaps  the 
accident  on  the  road  might  be  taken  as  an  equivalent 
for  that  introduction.  Then  there  were  dances,  and  ''fools- 
food"  (picnics).  The  one  might  be  considered  as  taken 
also,  the  others  were  out  of  season  in  the  heats  of  May. 
There  remained  drives  and  dinners.  Both  possible,  but 
both  required  time;  therefore  time  must  be  had.  The 
chota-sahih  must  not  ride  away  after  breakfast,  as  he  had 
settled  on  doing,  should  he  and  the  monster  be  found  fit 
for  the  road. 

Now  the  Ghota-sahib  seemed  none  the  worse  for  his  fall, 
as  Iman,  in  his  capacity  of  valet,  had  had  opportunities 
of  judging.  The  inference,  therefore,  was  obvious.  It 
must  be  the  monster  who  was  incapable. 

Iman  gave  a  finishing  glisten  to  the  shoes  and  placed 


24  SALT    DUTY 

them  decorously  side  by  side,  ready  to  be  taken  in  when 
the  appointed  hour  came  for  shaving  water.  Then  he  went 
over  and  looked  at  the  motor  bicycle,  which  was  accom- 
modated in  the  verandah.  It  did  not  pant  or  smell  now 
as  if  it  were  alive,  but  for  all  that  it  looked  horribly 
healthy  and  strong.  It  was  evidently  not  a  thing  to  be 
broken  inadvertently  by  a  casual  push.  Then  a  thought 
struck  him,  and  he  ambled  off  to  the  old  blacksmith,  who 
still  lived  in  the  serai  arcade  and  boasted  of  his  past  trade 
of  mending  springs,  shoeing  horses,  and  selling  to  travellers 
his  own  manufactures  in  the  w^ay  of  wonderful  soft  iron 
pocket-knives  with  endless  blades  and  corkscrews  warranted 
to  draw  themselves  instead  of  the  corks  ! 

"Ari  Bhai,"  said  Iman  mildly  to  this  worthy,  ''thou 
art  a  prince  of  workmen,  truly;  but  come  and  see  some- 
thing beyond  thy  art  in  iron.  Bapri  bap !  I  warrant 
thou  couldst  not  even  guess  at  its  inner  parts." 

Could  he  noil  Tezoo,  the  smith,  thought  otherwise, 
and  being  clever  as  well  as  voluble,  hit  with  fair  correct- 
ness on  pivots,  cog-wheels,  and  such-like  inevitables  of  all 
machinery,  the  result  of  the  interview  being  that  Iman, 
armed  with  his  kitchen  chopper  and  a  bundle  of  skewers, 
had  a  subsequent  tete-a-tete  with  the  monster,  in  which  the 
latter  came  off  second  best;  so  that  when  its  owner, 
fortified  by  a  most  magnificent  breakfast  (served  in  the 
verandah  by  reason  of  the  central  room  of  that  bastion 
having  an  absolutely  unsafe  roof),  went  to  overhaul  his 
metal  steed,  he  was  fairly  surprised. 

''It  is  a  verra  remarkable  occurrence,"  he  said  softly 
to  himself  as  his  deft  hands  busied  themselves  with  nuts 
and  screws  (for  he  was  a  Scotch  engineer  on  his  way  to 
take  up  an  appointment  as  superintendent  in  a  canal  work- 
shop), "most  remarkable.  And  would  be  a  fine  example 
to  the  old  ministers  thesis  that  accident  is  not  chance. 
There's  just  a  method  in  it  that  is  absolutely  uncanny." 

In  short,  even  with  the  smithy  on  the  premises,  of  which 
the  good  old  chap  in  charge  spoke  consolingly,  it  was  clear 
he  could  not  start  before  evening,  if  then.  Not  that  it 
mattered  so  much,  since  he  had  plenty  of  time  in  which 
to  join  his  billet. 


SALT    DUTY  25 

Thus,  as  he  smoked  his  pipe,  the  question  came  at  last 
for  which  the  old  matchmaker  had  been  longing. 

"And  who  would  the  young  lady  be  who  smashed  me 
up  last  night? " 

In  his  reply  Iman  dragged  in  Warm  E-stink  Sahih 
Bahadur  and  a  vast  amount  of  extraneous  matter  out  of 
his  own  past  experiences.  Regarding  the  present,  how- 
ever, he  was  distinctly  selective  without  being  actually 
untruthful.  The  late  E-stink  Sahih's  widow  and  children, 
for  instance,  being  also  at  rest  in  the  serai,  were  equally 
under  his  charge.  And  this  being  so,  since  there  was  but 
one  public  room  in  which  dinner  could  possibly  be  served 
as  it  should  be  served— here  Iman  made  a  digression 
regarding  the  rights  of  the  sahib-logue  at  large  and 
E-stink  Sahib's  family  in  particular— it  was  possible  that 
the  Huzoor  might  meet  his  fellow-lodgers  and  the  Miss- 
Sahiha  again. 

In  fact,  he— Iman— would  find  it  more  convenient  if 
the  meal  were  eaten  together  and  at  the  same  time,  and 
the  mem— her  absence  being  one  of  the  eliminated  truths- 
would,  he  knew,  fall  in  with  any  suggestion  of  his ;  w^hich 
statement  again  was  absolutely  true. 

Alec  Alexander,  lost  in  the  intricacies  of  a  piston-rod, 
acquiesced  mechanically,  though  in  truth  the  likelihood  of 
seeing  such  a  remarkably  pretty  face  again  was  not  without 
its  usual  unconscious  charm  to  a  young  man. 

This  charm,  however,  became  conscious  half  an  hour 
afterwards,  when  hard  at  work  in  the  smithy,  his  coat 
off,  his  sleeves  rolled  up,  showing  milk-white  arms  above 
bis  tanned  wrists,  he  looked  up  from  the  bit  of  glowing 
iron  on  the  anvil  and  saw  a  large  pair  of  blue  eyes  and  a 
large  string  of  blue  beads  about  an  almost  childish  throat. 
It  struck  him  that  both  were  as  blue  as  the  sky  inarching 
the  wide  inarched  square  of  the  old  serai.  It  struck  him 
also  that  the  eyes,  anj^how,  had  more  in  common  with  the 
sky  than  with  the  house  made  with  hands  in  w^hich  he 
stood,  even  though  dead  kings  had  built  it.  Yes  !  the  whole 
figure  did  not  belong  somehow  to  its  environment;  to  the 
litter  of  wasted  forage,  the  ashes  of  dead  fires,  to  the 
desertion  and  neglect  of  a  place  which,  having  served  its 


26  SALT   DUTY 

purpose  of  a  night's  lodging,  has  been  left  behind  on  the 
road.     It  seemed  worth  more  than  that. 

*'I  gave  you  a  nice  toss,  didn't  11 "  said  Elflida  Norma, 
breaking  in  on  his  quasi-sentimental  thought  with  a  certain 
complacency.  ''If  you  had  got  out  of  my  way  it  would 
have  been  more  better. 

"You  mean  if  you  hadn't  got  in  mine,"  he  replied, 
grimlj^  "  But  don't  let  us  quarrel  about  that  now.  The 
mischief's  done  so  far  as  I  am  concerned." 

The  blue  eyes  narrowed  in  eager  interest. 

"Have  you  broken  things  inside,  too?"  she  asked, 
sympathy  absent,  pure  curiosity  present  in  her  tone. 

"No  !  I  didn't,"  he  said,  shortly.  "I'm  not  of  the  kind 
that  breaks  easily." 

She  considered  him  calmly  from  head  to  foot. 
"No-o-o,"  she  admitted,  sparingly.  "I  suppose  not — ^but 
your  arms  look  veree  brittle,  like  china — ^I  suppose  that  is 
from  being  so — being  so  chicken-white." 

"Perhaps,"  he  said,  still  more  shortly,  and  was  relieved 
when  Iman  (having  from  the  cook-room,  where  he  was 
feverishly  feathering  fowls  in  preparation  for  the  night's 
feast,  detected  Elflida's  flagrant  breach  of  etiquette  in 
having  anything  whatever  to  do  with  a  coatless  sahib) 
hurried  across  to  beguile  his  charge  back  to  the  paths  of 
propriety  by  reporting  that  Lily-&aba  (to  whom  the  girl 
was  devoted)  evinced  a  determination  to  eat  melons  with 
her  brothers,  which  he,  Iman,  was  far  too  busy  to  frustrate. 

"You  need  not  make  such  pother  about  big  dinner 
to-night,"  she  said,  viciously,  when,  with  the  absolutely 
accommodating  Lily  in  her  arms,  she  stood  watching  the 
far  less  interesting  process  of  pounding  forcemeat  on  a 
curry  stone ;  "  for  I  heard  him  tell  the  smith  that  he  would 
go  this  evening  if — well,  if  somebody  kept  his  temper  in 
boiling  oil.     Such  a  queer  idea — as  if  anybody  could  ! " 

Old  Iman's  hands  fell  for  an  instant  from  the  munddu 
(Maintenon)  cutlets  he  was  preparing,  for  he  understood 
the  frail  foundation  on  which  his  chance  of  manufacturing 
a  husband  stood.     Jullunder-sahib  must  be  making  a  spring, 

and  if  the  oil  in  which  it  had  to  be  boiled But  no ! 

As  cook,  he  knew  something  of  the  properties  of  hot  fat, 


SALT   DUTY  27 

and  felt  convinced  that  the  spring  would  never  be  fried 
in  time. 

So  all  that  long  hot  day  he  toiled  and  slaved  in  company 
with  an  anatomy  of  a  man  whom  he  had  unearthed  from 
the  city.  A  man  who  had  also  in  his  youth  served  the 
white  bioodj  but  had  never  risen  beyond  the  scullery.  A 
man  who  called  him  *'  Great  Artificer,"  and  fanned  him 
and  the  charcoal  fire  indiscriminately  according  to  their 
needs. 

And  all  that  long  hot  day  on  the  other  side  of  the 
arcaded  square  work  went  on  also,  so  that  the  clang  of 
metal  on  anvil  or  cook-room  fire  rose  in  antagonism  on 
the  dusty  sunshine  which  slept  between  them.  Dinner  or 
no  dinner?  Spring  or  no  spring?  And  the  circling  dark 
shadows  of  the  kites  abave  in  the  blue  sky  were  almost 
the  only  other  signs  of  life,  for  Elflida  Norma  had  found 
sleep  the  easiest  way  of  keeping  hily-haha  from  the  melons, 
and  the  boys  slept  as  they  slept  always. 

But  as  the  sun  set  Iman  knew  that  fate  had  decided  in 
favour  of  the  dinner,  for  Jullunder-sahib  came  over  from 
the  smithy  with  empty  hands,  and  found  hot  water  in  his 
room,  and  the  change  of  white  raiment  he  carried  in  his 
knapsack  laid  out  decorously  on  the  bed. 

He  took  the  hint  and  dressed  for  dinner,  even  to  the 
buttonhole  of  jasmine  which  he  found  beside  his  hair-brush. 

Elflida  Norma,  under  similar  supervision,  dressed  also. 
In  fact,  everything  was  dressed,  including  the  flat  tin  lids 
of  the  saucepans  which  Iman  had  impressed  into  doing  duty 
as  side-dishes.  Surrounded  by  castellated  walls  of  rice 
paste,  supporting  cannon  balls  of  alternate  spinach  and 
cochinealed  potatoes,  they  really  looked  very  fine.  So  did 
Iman  himself,  starched  to  inconceivable  stiffness  of  deport- 
ment. So  even  did  the  anatomy,  who,  promoted  for  once 
to  the  dining-room,  grinned  at  the  young  man  and  the 
girl,  at  the  Great  Artificer  and  all  his  works,  with  his 
usual  indiscrimination. 

And,  in  truth,  each  and  all  deserved  grins.  Yet  Elflida 
Norma  looked  at  Alec  Alexander,  he  at  her,  and  both  at 
the  dinner  table  set  out  marvellously  with  great  trails  of 
the  common  pumpkin  vine  looked  with  the  cheap   silver 


28  SALT    DUTY 

tinsel  every  Indian  bazaar  provides,  and  felt  a  sudden 
shyness  of  themselves,  of  each  other,  and  the  unwonted 
snowiness  and  glitter. 

''Cler  or  wite?"  said  Iman,  his  old  hands  in  difiBculties 
with  two  soup  plates.     There  was  a  dead  silence. 

"  He  means  soup,"  faltered  Elflida  Norma  desperately, 
wishing  herself  with  the  boys  who  were  being  regaled  with 
curry  and  rice  in  her  room,  and  thereinafter  became  dumb 
until  the  next  course,  when  a  sense  of  duty  made  her 
supplement  Iman's  ^' fish-bar'l"  with  the  explanation  that 
it  was  not  really  fish,  which  was  not  procurable,  but 
another  form  of  fowl. 

So,  in  fact,  were  the  side  dishes  which  followed,  and 
in  which  Iman  had  so  far  surpassed  his  usual  self  that 
Elflida  was  perforce  as  helpless  as  her  companion  for  all 
save  eating  them  solidly  in  due  order.  The  old  man,  how- 
ever, was  too  much  absorbed  in  the  due  handling  of  '^bred- 
sarse"  with  the  fowl,  which  was  at  last  allowed  to  appear 
under  the  title  of  '' roschikken,"  too  much  discomforted  by 
the  subsidence  of  his  favourite  "  sikken,"  a  cheese  souffleey 
to  notice  silence,  or  the  lack  of  it,  until,  just  as — the  worst 
strain  over — he  was  perfunctorily  apologising  for  the 
impossibility  of  '' Hice-puddeen,"  a  fateful  cry  came  from 
the  next  room  and  Elflida  started  to  her  feet. 

"  It's  Lily,"  she  began;  but  Im^n  frowned  her  into  her 
seat  again,  and  turned  to  the  anatomy  superbly.  '"Go!" 
he  said  with  dignity,  ''and  bid  the  ayah  see  to  Lily-&a&a." 

The  result,  however,  was  unsatisfactory,  and  a  certain 
obstinacy  grew  to  Elflida' s  small  face,  which  finally 
blossomed  into  open  rebellion  and  a  burst  of  confidence. 

"You  see,"  she  said,  those  blue  eyes  of  hers  almost 
blinking  as  she  narrowed  them  with  earnestness,  "  she 
smells  guavas,  and  they  are  more  her  hobby  than  melons 
even." 

The  young  man  smiled. 

''Who's  Lily?"  he  asked;  "your  sister,  I  suppose." 

"My  half-sister,"  she  replied,  solemnly.  "But  she  will 
cry  on,  you  see,  if  she  is  not  let  to  come  to  my  place." 

"  Then  let  her  come — why  not?  " 

"It  is  an  evil  custom,"  began  Iman,  as  the  order  was 


SALT    DUTY  29 

given.  He  knew  no  graver  blame  than  that  even  for  a 
whole  Decalogue  in  ruins;  but  Elflicla  Norma  stamped  her 
foot  as  she  had  stamped  it  in  the  polka,  so  he  had  to  give 
in  and  thus  avoid  worse  exposures. 

And,  after  all,  the  introduction  of  the  dimpled  brown 
child  in  a  little  white  night-shift,  who  leant  shyly  against 
Elflida's  blue  beads,  seemed  to  help  the  conversation.  So 
much  so  that  after  coffee  and  cigarettes  had  been  served 
in  the  verandah,  old  Iman  felt  as  if  success  must  crown 
his  efforts— if  only  there  were  time  1  But  how  could  there 
be  time  when  the  possible  husband  had  arranged,  since 
the  motor  bicycle  refused  to  be  mended  with  the  appliances 
at  his  disposal,  to  have  it  conveyed  by  country  cart  over- 
night to  the  nearest  railway  station,  five  miles  off,  whither 
he  must  tramp  it,  he  supposed?  next  morning,  to  catch 
the  mail  train. 

It  w^as  when,  pleasantly,  yet  still  carelessly.  Alec 
Alexander  was  saying  good-bye  to  the  blue  eyes  and  the 
blue  beads,  with  the  brown  baby  cuddled  up  comfortably 
in  the  girl's  slender  arms,  that  Iman,  with  a  sinking  heart, 
played  his  last  card  by  saying  that  there  w^as  no  need  for 
the  Huzoor  to  tramp.  The  lliss-Sahiha  and  Li\y-haha 
invariably  took  a  carriage  airing  before  breakfast,  and 
could  quite  easily  drop  the  Huzoor  at  the  railway  station. 

''Yes!  I  could  drop  you  quite  easily  at  that  place.  It 
would  be  more  better  than  the  walk,"  assented  Elflida 
Norma,  with  a  Sphinx-like  smile.  Her  heart  was  beating 
faster  than  usual.  She  was  beginning  to  be  amused  with 
the  tinsel  glitter  and  the  general  pretence.  It  was  like 
playing  a  game.  Still  she  slept  soundly;  and  so  did  the 
yoimg  engineer,  and  Lily-haha,  and  the  boys  gorged  with 
as-a-rule-prohibited  native  dainties.  Even  the  smith  slept, 
and  the  anatomy  had  already  reverted  to  reality,  his 
transient  dignity  vanishing  into  thin  air.  So  that  in  that 
wide  ruined  serai,  built  by  dead  kings,  all  were  at  rest 
save  the  Great  Artificer,  Iman,  who  sate  among  the  ruins 
of  his  dinner,  satisfied,  yet  still  conscious  of  failure.  Some- 
thing was  lacking,  which  once  more  only  God  could  create- 
only  a  miraculous  car  could  bring. 

In  truth,  if  any  vehicle  might  from  outward  appearance 


30  SALT    DUTY 

claim  miraculous  powers,  it  was  the  extraordinary  sort  of 
four-wheeled  dogcart  which,  in  the  cool  morning  air, 
appeared  as  Iman's  last  card.  He  had,  indeed,  not 
wandered  from  the  truth  in  telling  Alec  Alexander  that 
carriages  were  not  to  be  hired  in  that  sahib-forsaken  spot, 
and  it  had  been  only  with  extreme  difl5culty  that  he  had 
raised  these  four  wheels  of  varying  colours  and  a  body 
painted  with  festoons  of  grapes,  all  tied  together  with 
ropes. 

Still,  it  held  the  party.  Iman,  with  Lily-haha  in  his 
arms,  on  the  box  by  the  driver,  Elflida  and  the  young 
engineer  disposed  on  the  back  seat.  The  horse,  it  is  true, 
showed  signs  of  never  having  been  in  harness  before,  but 
this  was  not  so  evident  to  those  behind,  and  Iman  held 
tight  and  set  his  teeth,  knowing  that  success  has  sometimes 
to  be  bought  dearly. 

Still,  it  was  with  no  small  measure  of  relief  when  they 
were  close  on  their  destination,  and  the  beast  settled  down 
to  the  two  hundred  yards  of  collar  work  leading  up  to  the 
small  station  level  with  the  high  embankment  of  the 
permanent  way,  that  he  turned  round  to  peep  at  progress 
on  the  back  seat. 

Had  anything  happened?  His  heart  sank  at  the  cool, 
collected  air  with  which  the  possible  husband  took  his 
ticket;  but  it  rose  again,  when,  after  saying  good-bye  to 
Lily-laha  and  tipping  the  coachman,  the  young  man  went 
off  to  the  platform  with  Elflida,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of 
course  she  should  see  him  off.  In  truth,  that  is  exactly 
what  he  did  feel  concerning  this  distinctly  pretty  and  rather 
jolly  little  girl  with  a  bad  temper. 

And  Elflida?  Her  world  seemed  to  have  had  a  fresh 
start  in  growth,  it  held  greater  possibilities  than  before, 
that  was  all. 

So  everything  had  been  in  vain,  even  Iman's  sense  of 
duty  towards  the  white  blood  he  had  served  so  long. 

"  Good-bye  !  "  He  could  not  hear  the  words,  but  he  saw 
the  young  hands  meet  to  unclasp  again,  as  with  a  whistle 
the  mail  train  rushed  out  from  behind  a  dense  mango  clunr^^ 
and  the  Westinghouse  brakes  brought  a  sudden  grinding 
rattle  to  the  quiet  morning  air. 


SALT    DUTY  31 

^'All  was  over!"  thought  Iman  sadly,  as  still  sitting 
on  the  box  with  LHy-haha,  he  watched.  Surely  it  had  not 
been  his  fault.  He  had  done  all — only  the  cheese  souffiee 
had  failed,  and  that  happened  sometimes  even  in  the  house 
of  Lat-Sahibs.     Yet  it  was  over. 

It  was,  indeed.  Almost  including  the  miraculous  car, 
as  deprived  of  its  driver,  who  was  spending  part  of  his 
tip  in  the  sweet  stall,  the  horse,  frightened  at  the  train, 
reared,  bounded  forward,  and  then,  finding  its  progress 
barred  in  front  by  a  railing,  swerved  on  its  track,  and 
came  past  the  station  again,  heading  for  that  downward 
incline  with  the  steep  banks  falling  away  on  either  side. 

Elflida  grasped  the  position  first,  and  with  a  cry  of 
*'Lily!  Lily!"  was  at  the  horse's  head  as  it  passed.  The 
possible  husband  was  not  far  behind — just  far  enough  to 
make  the  off  rein  as  convenient  to  his  pursuing  feet  as 
the  near  one,  to  which  she  clung,  half  dragged,  helpless, 
half  in  wild  determination  to  keep  pace  with  the  terrified 
beast. 

"Let  go!"  he  shouted.  "He'll  get  you  down,  and 
then — let  go,  I  say  1 " 

She  did  not  answer.  In  truth,  she  had  no  breath  for 
words.  And,  besides,  her  mind  was  not  clear  enough  to 
grasp  his  order,  though  it  grasped  something  else— namely, 
that  relief  from  her  dead  weight  on  one  side  must  bring 
a  swerve  to  the  other.  And  that  must  not  be  till  the 
embankment  was  passed,  or  the  man  holding  to  the  off  rein 
must  go  under. 

"Let  go!"  he  shouted,  again  and  again,  as  he,  in  his 
turn,  grasped  her  purpose;  but  he  might  as  well  have 
shouted  to  the  dead. 


"I  believe  — I  hope  — she  has  fainted,"  said  Alec 
Alexander,  with  a  catch  in  his  voice  not  all  due  to  breath- 
lessness,  as,  the  runaway  safe  held  by  other  captors,  he 
stooped  over  the  girl  who  lay  in  the  dust,  her  hands  still 
'Clenched  over  a  broken  rein.  Then  he  lifted  her  tenderly 
and  carried  her  back  to  the  station  whence  the  mail  train, 


32  SALT    DUTY 

careless    of    such    trivialities    as    miraculous    car^,    had 
departed. 

And  if  on  his  way  he  kissed  the  closed  blue  eyes  and 
the  blue  beads  round  the  childish  throat,  who  shall  blame 
himi 


Anyhow,  the  hot  dry  nights  of  May  were  not  over  before 
old  Iman's  voice  rose  once  more  in  declamation  over  the 
unforgettable  story  of  the  white  blood. 

But  this  time  sleep  did  not  come  to  the  black-and-tan 
tribe  gathered  in  the  light  of  the  floating  oil  wick.  For 
the  boys  were  watching  something  they  had  never  seen 
before — the  icing  of  a  wedding  cake. 

And  so  the  long-deferred  personal  climax  came  at  last. 

"  The  trouble  being  over,  the  masters  were  masters 
again,  and  I  took  Sonny-&a&a  back  to  his  people.  And 
wherefore  not  ?  Seeing  I  had  eaten  of  their  salt  all  my 
life  and  they  of  mine.  Yea !  even  unto  wedding  cakes. 
Look,  my  sons  !  That  is  done,  and  I,  Iman,  the  faithful 
one  by  name  and  nature  made  it." 


There  was  but  one  flaw  in  the  old  man's  content  on  the 
great  day ;  for  he  had  managed  to  get  a  ham  cheap  for  the 
"  suffer,"  and  Mrs.  Hastings,  only  too  glad  of  greater 
freedom  in  the  future,  had  consented  to  his  turning  his 
attention  to  the  education  of  the  young  couple  and  Lily- 
haha,  who  was  to  live  with  them.  That  flaw  was  a  slight 
irregularity  in  what  he  was  pleased  to  call  a  '^too-liver-ot" 
on  the  said  cake.  Not  that  it  really  mattered.  The  true 
lover's  knot  itself  was  there,  though  the  hands  which 
fashioned  it  were  not  so  young  and  steady  as  they  had 
been  when  they  caught  up  Sonny-&aba  and  carried  him  to 
the  safe  shadows. 

Yet,  old  as  they  were,  those  hands  had  forgotten  no 
duty.  E-stinh  Sahih^s  widow,  absorbed  with  a  friend  in  the 
recipe  of  a  mango  pickle  she  m.eant  to  make  on  the  morrow — 
a  pickle  full  of  forbidden  turmeric  and  mustard  oil — had 


SALT    DUTY  33 

to  be  reminded  of  her  role  as  bride's  mother  over  and  over 
again,  but  it  was  Iman  who  hung  a  horseshoe  for  luck  on 
the  miraculous  car — drawn  this  time  by  an  old  stager — 
Imdn,  who  was  ready  with  rice,  Iman,  who  finally  ran  after 
the  departing  lovers  to  fling  the  old  w^hite  shoe,  in  which 
Elflida  had  danced  the  hee-haw  polka,  into  their  laps  as 
they  sate  on  the  back  seat,  and  then,  overbalancing  himself 
in  the  final  effort,  to  tumble  into  the  dust,  where  he 
remained  blissfully  uncertain  as  to  praise  or  blame, 
murmuring  blandly,  ^'^Vhat  a  custom  is  here  !  " 


THE  WISDOM  OF  OUR  LORD  GANESH 


C  2 


"The  wisdom  of  Sri  Ganesh— the  wisdom  of  our  Lord  Ganfesh."* 

Through  and  through  my  fever-drugged  brain  the  words 
came,  compelling,  insistent;  forcing  me  away  from  reality, 
forcing  me  back  into  the  past.  Yet  I  knew  perfectly  where 
I  was ;  I  remembered  distinctly  that  having  felt  unusually 
tired  after  rather  a  hot  day's  march  I  had  pitched  the  little 
tente  d' ahri— which  was  my  home  during  a  sketching  tour 
in  Wales— rather  closer  to  the  main  road  than  I  generally 
did,  and  had  thereinafter  promptly  succumbed  to  an 
unmistakable  go  of  fever  and  ague,  a  half-forgotten  legacy 
left  behind  by  many  years  of  Indian  life. 

Yes,  I  could  remember  distinctly  the  bramble-and-nut- 
hidden  quarry  hole,  with  its  little  inner  sward  of  sweet 
sheep-bitten  grass  where  I  had  pitched  the  tent.  I  knew 
that  if  I  were  to  call,  someone  of  the  rumbling  cart  wheels, 
which  came  at  intervals  along  the  road,  might  stop  and 
seek  for  the  caller;  but  I  lay  still.  I  was  hard-happed 
round  and  round  with  the  curious  content  which  comes  as 
the  chills  and  the  aches  are  passing  into  the  fire  flood  of 
fever  that  thrills  the  finger-tips  and  sets  the  brain  fizzling 
like  champagne. 

"The  wisdom  of  Sri  Ganesh— the  wisdom  of  our  Lord  GanSsh." 

Why  on  earth  should  that  haunt  me  here  in  Wales  1  on 
a  piece,  no  doubt,  of  Nat  Gwynne's  property. 

Nat  Gwynne  !  Then  I  knew.  It  was  because  I  had  seen 
him  in  the  distance  that  day,  driving  a  pair  of  grey  ponies, 
tandem,  with  a  pretty  young  girl  beside  his  coarse,  heavy, 
good  looks;  heavier  than  they  had  been,  though,  heaven 
knows !  refinement  had  never  stood  much  in  his  way. 
And    they   were    to    be    married    to-morrow !    Married    to 

*  Ganesh  is  the  Indian  God  of  Wisdom.  He  is  always  portrayed 
with  the  head  of  an  elephant. 


38        THE   WISDOM   OF   OUU   LORD   GANESH 

Gwynne  of  Garthgwynne !  Couldn't  anyone  tell  her  what 
she  was  doing?  Couldn't  anyone  save  her,  as  the  wisdom 
of  Sri  Ganesh  had  saved  that  other  one  1  .  .  . 

And  then  in  a  second  I  was  gone.  I  was  under  the 
brassy  blue  sky  of  India,  and  from  the  twisted  tufts  of 
marsh-grasses  by  the  elephant's  feet  came  a  native  beater's 
lament — ''As  God  sees  me  it  is  invisible — what  a  tyranny 
is  here." 

"Bid  Ganesh  seek,"  said  Nat  Gwynne's  voice,  impera- 
tively from  the  howdah  from  which  we  were  both  shooting. 
He  was  in  a  Lancer  regiment  cantooned  in  the  native  State 
where  for  many  years  I  had  been  consulting  engineer. 

The  mahout,  seated  on  the  big  brute's  neck,  turned 
calmly.  ''It  is  against  the  orders  that  Sri  Ganesh,  King 
of  Elephants  and  Lord  of  Wisdom,  should  touch  carrion 
even  of  the  Huzoor's." 

I  looked  at  my  old  friend  Mahadeo  with  astonishment. 
He  and  I  had  been  out  on  Ganesh,  the  Rajah's  finest 
elephant,  scores  of  times,  and  again  and  again  the  cunning 
old  rogue's  inquisitive  trunk  had  nosed  out  and  up  a 
partridge  or  snipe  which  the  coolies  had  failed  to  find. 

"He  hath  a  scent  like  a  bed  of  roses,"  old  Mahadeo 
would  say  proudly,  "  and  as  for  wisdom !  Doth  he  not 
hold  the  Huzoor  even  as  his  own  mahout  1 " 

Which  delicate  piece  of  flattery  was  true,  for  old  Ganesh, 
pad  elephant  to  the  bankrupt  young  scoundrel  of  a  Rajah, 
had  taken  a  fancy  to  me,  as  elephants  do  take  fancies. 

So,  seeing  at  a  glance  that  something  lay  beneath  the 
surface  of  the  bitter  hatred  in  the  dark  face,  and  the  wild, 
wicked  rage  of  the  white  one,  I  said,  quickly.  "  Seek ! 
my  brother ! " 

Ganesh  swayed  forward,  his  trunk  curling  like  a  snake, 
his  wicked  little  eyes  alert,  a  faint  frou-frou  of  a  blowing 
sound  seeming  to  quiver  the  grasses ;  and  there,  grasped 
softly  in  the  prehensile  end  was  a  dead  jack  snipe !  As 
he  put  it  deferentially  and  politely  into  my  outstretched 
hand  I  seemed  to  catch  a  contemptuous  flicker  in  his  eye, 
as  who  would  say,  "  What  an  amount  of  fuss  about  such  a 
very  little  piece  of  pork,"  as  the  Jew  said  when  a  thunder- 
storm found  him  eating  sausage. 


THE   WISDOM   OF   OUR   LORD   GANESH        39 

But  that  it  was  not  a  little  piece  of  pork  between  those 
two,  still  glaring  at  each  other,  was  evident. 

Mahadeo's  usually  gentle  face  had  taken  on  a  stony 
stare  that  held  in  it  something  of  limitless  power;  while 
Nat  Gwynne's  anger  was  almost  obscured  by  sheer  disgust 
at  having  to  keep  his  hands  off  another  man's  servant. 

''By  God!"  he  cried.  "It's  lucky  for  you,  you  pig, 
that  I'm  not  your  master — but — but  I'll  try  to  be — I'll  buy 
this  big  brute  when  they  sell  the  bankrupt  State  up  next 
month,  and  I'll  buy  you,  curse  you,  and  I'll  .  .  ." 

''Do  hold  your  tongue,  Gwynne,"  I  said  to  him  in  a 
low  voice,  for  his  temper  was  notorious,  and  once  he  lost 
control  over  himself  he  would  often  behave  like  a  madman. 
As,  indeed,  he  had  every  right  to  be,  since  the  record  of 
the  Gwynnes  of  Garthgwynne  was  a  black  one. 

Mahadeo,  however,  supplied  the  return  to  calm. 

"  The  Huzoor  is  mast,''  he  said  to  me,  rapidly  in  low 
contemptuous  Hindustani,  turning  the  while  to  sit, 
immovable  as  ever,  a  mere  head  and  trunk  of  a  man,  all 
else  being  hidden  by  the  elephant's  great  shields  of  ears. 
''He  is  as  the  beasts  that  perish.  And  Ganesh,  too,  nears 
his  time  of  power — "  he  pointed  to  the  great  head  he 
bestrode  where,  oozing  apparently  from  a  slight  hollow 
in  the  skin  a  few  drops  of  ichor  showed,  half  hardened  into 
amber,  "  so  let  those  who  would  harm  him — or  his  friends 
beware  ! " 

But  there  was  nothing  of  which  to  be  beware  therein- 
after, for  all  became  peace.  How  hot  the  sun  was !  And 
the  guns,  too  !  Almost  too  hot  to  hold.  But  how  cool  it 
was  in  the  camp  down  in  a  mango-grove  beside  a  tank 
with  great  cane  brakes  stretching  away  into  the  stars 
under  the  moonlight !  And  how  peaceful !  How  one  slept, 
and  slept,  and  slept,  drowsed  to  dreamlessness  by  the 
great  peace  of  the  immovable  shadows,  the  greater  peace 
of  the  light  behind  them.  .  .  . 

Ye  powers  above  !  What  was  that  1  Even  now,  remem- 
bering it,  all  was  as  it  had  seemed  then.  Shadow  on  light, 
light  on  shadow  ...  a  curse,  a  cry  .  .  .  something  young 
and  slim  fleeing,  half  in  light,  half  in  shadow  !    Then  a 


40        THE   WISDOM   OF   OUR  LORD   GANESH 

/ 

sudden  trumpet,  a  rattle  as  of  chained  front  feet,  one 
little  sob.  .  .  . 

How  steadily  the  moonlight  shone  through  the  branches 
on  that  small  upturned  face  which  was  all  Ganesh's  feet 
had  spared. 

''Who?  What?"  I  gasped,  uncomprehending,  staring 
stupidly  at  Mahadeo  on  his  knees  beside  the  dead  girl, 
at  Gwynne,  still  dressed,  the  buttons  on  his  mess  jacket 
glittering  like  diamonds,  his  face  all  working  with  horror 
and  dismay.  But  there  was  no  room  for  anything  but  the 
old  man's  voice,  quiet,  restrained; 

''She  was  my  granddaughter,  Huzoor.  But  a  light 
thing.  She  must  have  gone  too  near  the  King  of  Elephants, 
being  as  this  slave  said,  near  to  his  time  of  power.  What 
then?  It  is  the  wisdom  of  our  Lord  Ganesh!  The  wisdom  of 
Sri  Ganesh! '' 

The  sound  of  his  voice  died  away  softly,  and  the  wind 
carried  it  further,  and  further,  and  further.  .  .  . 

Such  an  odd  wind !  Soft,  warm,  with  a  faint  perfume 
in  it,  blowing  on  my  hands,  my  face.  And  behind  it  a 
familiar  sighing  sound  with  the  echo  of  a  chuckle  in  it.  .  .  . 

Was  it  possible?  I  started  up,  my  brain  in  a  whirl. 
Did  I,  or  did  I  not  see  in  the  moonbeam  which  stole  through 
a  chink  in  the  tent  flap,  something  sinuous,  that  curved  and 
bent  caressingly?  And  beyond  it,  where  the  flap  divided, 
was  or  was  that  not  a  rough  image  of  the  Elephant  Headed 
God  of  Wisdom  painted  in  hot  ochres  on  an  elephant's 
fore  front  ?  I  was  out  of  the  blankets  in  a  second,  flinging 
back  the  tent  flaps  with  a  delirious  laugh.  Aye  !  It  was 
true !  Earth  and  air  alike  seemed  blocked  by  a  huge  mass 
of  flesh  that  quivered  all  over  with  delight.  Come !  this 
was  something  like  a  fever  dream !  To  have  an  Indian 
Rajah's  pad  elephant  to  ride  on — to  go  whither  you  would 
for  a  fresh  breeze — to  cool  your  brain, 

" Baito,  Ganesh!  Baitol"  1  cried,  giving  the  familiar 
order;  but  the  next  instant  my  vaingloriousness  ended  in 
a  shiver,  almost  of  fear,  as  the  brute  obeyed,  sinking  noise- 
lessly and  laying  its  trunk,  curled  round  to  protect  itself 
against  injury,  ready  for  me  to  mount. 

Scarcely  knowing  what  I  did  I  caught  familiarly  at  the 


THE   WISDOM   OF   OUR  LORD   GANESH        41 

Hg'drooping  ears,  I  felt  the  trunk  beneath  my  feet  tilted 
gingerly  to  aid  me,  and  there  I  was,  my  head  reeling  madly, 
in  the  old  familiar  place  1 

But  around  me  1  Around  me  half  Wales,  bathed  in  broad 
moonlight,  lay  peaceful;  with,  in  the  distance,  a  faint 
shimmer  telling  of  the  sea— the  far  sea  that  still  seemed 
to  sound  in  my  ears  as  if,  indeed,  I  lay  upon  its  very  shore 
listening  to  the  break  and  burden  of  the  waves  which  came 
from  far  away — so  very  far  away. 

I  think  the  effort  must  have  made  me  relapse  into 
unconsciousness,  for  the  next  thing  I  remember  is  finding 
myself  propped  up  by  pillows  in  the  howdah,  and  hearing 
a  familiar  voice  break  in  upon  the  ceaseless  fall  of  the 
waves  which  filled  my  ears. 

And  from  the  voice  I  gathered  vaguely  that  it  was  not 
a  dream  at  all.  This  was  indeed  Ganesh,  who  had  been 
sold  because  of  his  great  height  to  an  English  showman, 
and  this  was  no  other  than  old  Mahadeo,  who  would  not 
leave  his  charge,  and  had  come  over  the  black  water,  also, 
where  there  was  nothing  good  to  be  had  save  rum;  rum 
that  kept  the  cold  out  on  these  chill  September  nights  when 
Ganesh  had  to  do  his  marches  from  town  to  town,  since 
the  sight  of  an  elephant  might  frighten  the  traffic  by  day. 
There  was  evidently  some  of  that  rum  still  in  the  old  man's 
voice  as  he  chid  Ganesh  glibly  for  having  been  restive  and 
thrown  his  unsteady  mahout  on  the  road.  But  then  had  not 
the  animal  always  loved  the  Huzoor,  even  as  his  master^ 
And  must  he  not  have  nosed  him  out  as  he  passed,  the  Lord 
of  Elephants  having,  as  ever,  a  scent  as  of  rose  gardens'? 
Which  was  as  well,  since  now  the  Huzoor  would  be  able 
to  get  a  doctor-sa/iib  and  medicine.  ... 

I  tried  to  understand,  but  it  was  hard  to  get  at  anything 
with  fever  raging  in  one's  brain,  w^iile  the  rhythmic  roll 
of  the  elephant's  pace  as  we  lilted  away  over  half  Wales 
seemed  to  blend  with  the  fall  of  those  waves  from  very 
far  away.  Once  I  remember  asking  how  many  couple  of 
snipe  we  had  killed.  After  that  Mahadeo  furtively  brought 
out  a  bottle  and  gave  me  something  fiery  which  seemed  to 
do  me  good,  though  he  muttered  to  himself  that  he  could 
but  do  his  best— his  was  not  the  wisdom  of  Sri  Ganesh. 


42        THE  WISDOM   OF  OUR  LORD   GANESH 

"  You— you  shouldn^t  say  that  to  me,  you— you  old  fool," 
I  murmured,  weakly.  ''You  should  say  it  as  you  said  to— 
to — to  Gwynne-sahib — Gwjnne-sakil),  who  is  going  to  be 
married  to-morrow— don't  you  know  1  Such  a  pretty  girl- 
such  a  very  pretty  girl— ^uch  a  poor,  pretty  girl.  ..." 

I  don't  know  quite  what  I  said;  I  am  glad,  indeed,  not 
to  be  able  to  remember,  but  I  have  a  vague  recollection  of 
becoming  a  trifle  maudlin,  and  finally  of  pointing  out,  amid 
a  cloud-like  shadow  of  trees  that  lay  on  the  far  horizon, 
the  position — or  thereabouts — of  Garthgwynne,  whither  the 
young  bride  was  to  be  led  the  next  evening. 

Now,  in  all  this,  as  I  recount  it  from  a  blurred,  fever- 
stricken  memory,  allowance  must  be  made  for  illusion.  I 
don't  know  if  it  really  happened,  I  can  only  vouch  for  my 
belief  that  I  actually  saw  and  did  these  things.  I  think 
now,  therefore,  that  I  fell  asleep,  always  with  that 
recurring  fall  of  distant  waves  in  my  ear,  until  I  woke 
suddenly  to  a  loud  hilarious  burst  of  half-drunken  laughter. 

''Stop  him!  Hie!  Gone  away  !  Hello!  Gwynne  !  Pity 
the  bride  !  If  you  don't  go  to  bed  there'll  be  no  wedding 
day !  Yoicks !  Poor  devil !  wants  to  escape  the  halter. 
Hie  !  You  there  !  Best  man  !  You're  bound  to  bring  him 
■up  sober." 

We  were  in  the  deep  shadow  of  the  famous  cedar  trees, 
and  one  look  at  the  old  house  beyond  the  lawn  was  enough 
for  recognition.  Yes !  it  was  Plas  Garthgwynne,  favoured 
of  picture  postcards,  favoured  of  wild,  wicked  romance 
and  legend.  It  was  all  blazing  with  lights,  so,  despite  the 
waning  of  the  moon,  I  could  see — clustering  at  the  door  and 
dispersed  over  the  gravel  sweep — the  mad  rush  of  Gwynne 
of  Garthgwynne' s  last  bachelor  party  as  it  tumbled  tipsily 
m  chase  of  a  reeling  figure  that  came  straight  towards  us 
across  the  lawn  to  lose  itself  in  the  opposite  shadows. 

And  then  a  hard  feminine  voice  dominated  the  uproar: 

"  Leave  him  alone,  you  fools !  The  night  air  will  sober 
him;  and  if  it  doesn't,  there's  no  hurry  to  carry  on  the 
breed." 

Something  of  brutal  truth  behind  the  brutal  coarse- 
ness of  the  remark  fell  like  a  wet  blanket  over  the 
half-fuddled  guests;  some  of  them  picked  themselves  up 


THE  WISDOM   OF   OUR  LORD   GANESH        43 

moodily  from  the  gravel,  others  found  stability  from  friends, 
and  so  they  drifted  in  unsteadily,  dominated  once  more 
by  that  hard,  feminine,  unwomanly  voice  asserting  that  if 
he  didn't  crawl  back  to  burrow  in  a  quarter-of-an-hour, 
she'd  send  the  butler  to  look  for  him. 

And  thereinafter  came  quiet;  while  one  by  one  the 
glittering  windows  of  the  house  sank  to  darkness. 

And  yet  it  was  not  dark,  after  all,  surely  1  Or  was 
there  a  curious  halo  of  light  emanating  from  old  Mahadeo's 
head;  a  halo  which  distorted  him  somehow,  which  piled 
his  low  turban  into  a  high  tiara,  and  made  his  nose  show 
long,  so  long — almost  as  long  as  the  Elephant-Faced  God- 
of- Wisdom  ...  in  the  Indian  shrines.  .  .  . 

Ah  !    There  he  was  !  .  .  . 

Gwynne  of  Garth grv^ynne,  standing  on  a  bit  of  open 
beyond  the  shadow — behind  him  a  grey  shimmer  of  mere 
set  thick  with  water  lilies — his  legs  very  wide  apart,  his 
wf»^^n  in  his  hand — it  had  some  electric  appliance  about 
it,  and  the  feeble  light  streaming  upwards  showed  his  face 
full  of  hard,  soul-revealing  lines.  What  a  face !— the  face 
of  a  devil  let  loose — set  free  from  the  fetters  of  conven- 
tional life. 

"  Two  o'clock,"  he  muttered.  ''  Well !  whats'h  a-matter. 
Sh'upposin'  am  drunk  she'll  have  to  put  up— Gwynne 
Garthgwynne,  d— mn  her— my  wife— mother  of  Gwynne' s- 
Garth  .  .  ." 

"Forward,  Sri  Ganesh ! "  The  order  came  soft  but 
swift,  and  we  were  out  of  the  shadows.  What  was  it  out 
of  the  shadows,  also— out  of  the  Dim  Shadows  which 
shroud  Life  in  the  Beginning  and  the  End,  which  caught 
me  irresistibly,  making  me  say  sharply  as  one  who  has 
waited  long,  ''Come  along,  Gwynne!  do— there's  a  good 
fellow." 

For  an  instant  surprise  seemed  to  struggle  with  satis- 
faction in  his  drink-sodden  brain.  The  tall,  heavy  figure 
swayed,  lurched.  I  could  see  its  every  detail,  the  very 
buttons  on  the  mess  jacket— worn  doubtless  out  of  bravado 
this  last  evening  of  bachelorhood— shone,  as  they  had  done 
that  night  years  ago   amid  the  shadow  and  shine  of  the 


44        THE  WISDOM   OF  OUE  LORD   GANESH 

mango-tope ;  for  a  radiance  seemed  to  have  sprung  from 
earth  and  sky  in  which  nothing  could  be  hidden. 

Then  suddenly  came  his  old  reckless,  half-insane  burst 
of  laughter.  ''Come,"  he  echoed,  drunkenly,  ''Why — 
why— shno't?  Whatsh'  larks— chursh,  fl'rs  joir—lit'— bride 
— no  bridegroom  ! — joll' — good' — larks'h,  eh  !  Off  to  Phil- 
delp'ia  in  the  mornin' — see  th'other  one — joll' — lit'  one. 
Bait,  you  pig,  Ganesh  !    Bait!^' 

It  all  passed  like  a  flash  of  lightning.  The  elephant  was 
down  and  up  again,  and  the  last  thing  I  remember  was 
hearing  Gwynne  of  Garthgwynne's  drunken  voice  say, 
"Hello!  old  Mahadeo,  eh!  Well!  go  it,  ol'  man.  Givs'h 
some  of — wish-dom — Shri  Ganesh — eh — what?" 

When  I  roused  again  it  was  dawn;  pale  primrose  dawn 
over  a  cloudless  sea. 

It  was  the  strange  wind  that  roused  me,  the  soft,  warm 
wind  that  passed  over  my  face  and  sought  something  else — 
and  found  it.  Soft  as  a  snake  the  elephant's  trunk  found 
the  drunken  man's  neck  as  he  lay  asleep,  half  hanging  out 
of  the  cushioned  how^dah,  and  closed  on  it.  The  sight 
drove  the  blur  from  my  mind,  and  in  an  instant  I  saw  all 
things  clearly. 

We  were  on  the  very  edge  of  a  high  cliff.  Below  us 
lay  the  scarce  dawn-lit  waters  of  the  calm  sea.  But 
between  me  and  that  tender  distant  sky,  what  form  was 
this  with  triple  crown  and  wise  stern  human  eyes  looking 
out  of  an  animal's  face? 

Wisdom  itself  !    Wisdom  come  to  judgment. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  I  clung  to  the  howdah's 
side  as  if  turned  to  stone.  I  seemed  to  know  what  was 
coming — to  realise  the  verdict  which  that  ultimate  wisdom 
must  give.     Then  in  a  clarion  voice  the  words  came : 

"By  the  order  of  the  Lord  Ganesh,  kill." 

The  softness,  the  tenderness  of  the  snaky  coil,  so 
sensitive  that  the  finest  thread  in  God's  world  can  scarce 
escape  it,  changed  suddenly  to  iron.  There  was  no  cry, 
no  struggle.  Gwynne  of  Garthgwynne's  body  swung  high 
m  air,  then,  flung  from  it  with  all  leviathan's  strength, 
fell,  and  fell,  and  fell    . 


THE  WISDOM   OF   OUR   LORD   GANESH         45 

When  the  roaring  of  the  distant  sea  ceased  in  mine  ears 
about  a  fortnight  afterwards,  I  found  that  the  nine  days' 
wonder  of  Gwynne  of  Garthgwynne's  disappearance  on  his 
wedding  night  had  died  down.  He  had  rushed  out  rollick- 
ing drunk — that  all  knew.  He  had  not  returned.  The 
butler  sent  out  to  seek  for  him  had  sought  other  seekers, 
but  all  in  vain.  They  were  still  dragging  the  mere  for 
him,  but  the  flood  gates  of  the  river  (of  which  it  was  a 
backwater)  had  been  open  that  night,  and  the  body  might 
have  drifted  out  to  sea.  So  there  had  been  no  wedding, 
and  a  distant  heir,  barely  related  to  the  old  stock,  was 
ready  to  take  possession  so  soon  as  doubt  was  over.  As 
for  me,  the  early  postman,  attracted  by  my  moaning,  had 
found  me  half-in  and  half-out  of  my  blankets  in  the  tente 
(Tdbri  behind  the  bramble  screen  of  the  quarry. 

Was  it  then  all  a  dream  1  Even  if  it  were  not  .  .  . 
Was  it  not  the  wisdom  of  our  Lord  Ganeshl 
I  decided,  at  last,  to  say  nothing  about  that  dream  of  a 
marvellous  moonlight  ride  on  an  elephant  over  half  Wales. 
Twinges  of  conscience  assailed  me  at  times,  but  they  were 
laid  to  rest  for  ever  about  Christmas-tide,  when,  going 
through  a  small  town  in  the  Midlands,  I  was  met,  in  passing 
a  new  cottage  hospital  on  its  environs,  by  a  glad  cry — "  The 
very  man  I  want !  I've  got  a  poor  soul  here  who  won't  die. 
He  ought  really  to  have  been  at  peace  two  days  ago — ^but 
he  goes  on  and  on.  You  see,  he's  an  Indian  or  something, 
and  we  can't  speak  the  lingo— you  can,  I  expect*? " 

I  followed  the  doctor,  with  whom  I  had  a  slight  acquain- 
tance, into  the  ward,  with  a  foreboding  at  my  heart.  I 
knew  it  was  old  Mahadeo,  and  that,  indeed,  he  wanted  me. 
And  it  was.  He  lay  tucked  up  between  clean  sheets  on 
an  English  bed  with  two  English  hospital  nurses  fadding 
about  him,  speechless,  gasping,  at  the  very  point  and  spit 
of  death,  yet  waiting— waiting  ... 

I  knew  what  he  wanted,  and  without  a  word,  his  dark 
eyes  following  me  in  dim  gladness,  I  threw  back  the 
clothes  and  got  a  firm  grip  of  the  sheet  at  his  head.  He 
should  at  least  die  as  a  Hindu  should  die.  ''  Now,  doctor  1 " 
I  said,  ''if  you'll  take  the  feet  we  will  let  him  find 
freedom  outside." 


46        THE   WISDOM   OF   OUR  LORD   GANESH 

A  nurse  started  forward.  "  But  the  case  is  pneumonia — 
double  pneumonia " 

The  doctor  hesitated;  they  always  are  in  the  hands  of 
the  nurses. 

^'Look  here,  Jones,"  I  cried,  sharply.  ''This  man 
doesn't  want  clinical  thermometers,  and  draw-sheets,  and 
caps.  He  wants  freedom.  He  wants  to  die  as  his  religion 
tells  him  he  must  die,  on  Mother  Earth — aye — even  if  her 
bosom  is  white  with  snow." 

And  it  was,  for  it  was  Christmas-tide. 

So  we  lifted  him  out,  the  doctor  and  I,  and  laid  him 
down  on  Heaven's  white  quilt.  He  just  rolled  over,  face 
down,  into  the  cool  pillow. 

"  Bdm-Bdm — Sita-Bdrriy"  1  whispered,  kneeling  beside 
him  to  give  the  last  dying  benediction  of  his  race.  Such 
a  quaint  one  !  Only  the  name  of  what  to  it,  is  superman 
and  superwoman.  A  last  appeal  to  the  higher  instincts 
of  humanity. 

There  was  one  little  sob.  I  thought  I  heard  the 
beginning  of  the  old  refrain: 

"The  wisdom  of  our  Lord  Ganesh — — "  Then  he  had 
found  freedom. 

''You  seem  to  know  their  ways,  sir,"  said  a  horsey- 
looking  man  who  had  come  in  with  us  and  who  had 
evidently  something  to  do  with  the  show.  "So,  if  you 
could  give  us  a  'elp  with  this  pore  fellar's  beast,  I'd  be 
obliged.  Hasn't  touched  food  this  ten  days — never  since 
the  old  man  took  worse,  and  a  elephant,  sir,  is  a  dead  loss 
to  a  show.  The  master  lef  'im  here  with  me,  but  I'm 
blowed  if  I  can  do  nothing  with  him." 

I  found  Ganesh  happier  than  his  master,  for,  no  place 
being  large  enough  for  him,  he  lay  in  the  open;  but  they 
had  stretched  a  tarpaulin  over  him  like  a  rick-cover,  as 
a  protection. 

A  glance  told  me  he  was  far  gone,  though  he  lay 
crouched,  not  prone ;  his  trunk — marvellous  agent  for  good 
or  ill — stretched  out  before  him  beyond  shelter  into  the 
snow. 

As  I  came  up  to  him,  I  fancied  I  saw  a  flicker  in  his 
eyes,  those  eyes  so  small,  so  full  of  wisdom.    Then  I  laid 


THE  WISDOM   OF   OUR   LORD   GANE8H        47 

in  front  of  him  the  old  man's  turban,  ragged,  worn,  which 
I  had  begged  of  the  prim  nurses.  In  a  second  the  whole, 
huge,  inert  mass  of  flesh  became  instinct  with  life.  He 
rose  to  his  feet  with  incredible  swiftness,  and  softly 
encircling  the  old  ragged  pugree,  raised  it  gently  and 
placed  it  in  the  master's  seat.  For  a  moment  I  doubted 
what  would  come  next;  but  the  instinct  which  is  held  in 
leviathan's  small  brain  is  great.  He  knew  by  some 
mysterious  art  that  the  mast-er  was  dead,  that  the  human 
mind  which  had  been  his  guide  was  gone. 

He  took  one  step  forward,  threw  up  his  trunk,  and  the 
echoes  of  the  surrounding  houses  cracked  with  the  roaring 
bellow  of  his  trumpet  as  he  swayed  sideways  and  fell  dead. 

That  was  all  the  little  smug  provincial  English  town 
ever  knew  of  the 

"  Wisdom  of  our  Lord  Ganesb." 


THE   SON   OF   A   KING 


1 

''Barring  my  pay,"  he  said,  ruefully,  "I  haven't  a  coin 
in  the  world."  And  for  the  moment,  newly  accepted  lover 
as  he  was,  his  eyes  actually  left  hers  and  wandered  away 
to  the  reddening  yellow  of  the  sunset  with  a  certain  resent- 
ment at  the  limitations  of  his  world. 

"Father  has  plenty!"  she  put  in  joyously.  And  for 
the  moment  her  hand  actually  touched  his  in  a  new-born 
sense  of  appropriation  and  right  of  re-assurance  which 
made  her  blush  faintly.  It  also  made  his  eyes  return  to 
hers,  w^hereat  she  blushed  furiously,  and  then  tried  to  cover 
her  confusion  by  a  jest.  "Well!  he  has.  Hasn't  he  the 
best  collection  of  coins  in  India?  " 

"He  wouldn't  part  with  one  of  them,  though,  for  love 
or  money.  And  I  doubt  his  parting  with  you — though  I 
could  pay  a  lot — in  love." 

He  had  both  her  hands  now,  and  the  very  newness  of 
the  position  made  her  fence  with  the  emotion  it  aroused. 
"He  parted  with  duplicates." 

"  But  you  aren't  one — there  isn't  anyone  like  you  in 
the  wide,  wide  world.  And  I'm  glad  you're  not.  I  don't 
want  anyone  else  to  be  as  lucky  as  I  am." 

She  retreated  still  further  from  realities  into  jesting. 
"  Then  he  exchanges  quite  often,  so,  if  you  only  set  your- 
self to  find  something "     She  broke  off,   and  her  face 

lit  up.  "Oh,  Jim!  I  have  such  a  delightful  idea!  You 
shall  find  the  gold  coin — you  know  the  one  I  mean — with 
the  date  that  is  to  settle,  or  unsettle,  half  the  history  of 
the  world  !  Do  you  know,  I  really  believe,  if  you  helped 
him  to  confound  all  those  German  v/iseacres,  that  father 

would  be  quite  willing  to  exchange " 

"His  daughter  for  the  ducat!  Perhaps.  But,  unfor- 
tunately— and  quite  between  ourselves — I  have  my  doubts 

D  2 


52  THE   SON   OF   A  KING 

about  the  existence  of  that  coin.  Or  if  it  does  exist  it  is 
hopelessly  hidden  away  for  ever  and  ever  and  aye,  like 
that  blessed  old  buried  city  of  his  that  we  have  all  been 
hunting  after  this  month  past  in  the  wilderness.  I  don't 
wish  to  be  disrespectful  to  your  father,  Queenie,  but  I 
believe  he  dreamt  of  it — that  is  to  say,  if  it  didn't  dream 
of  him — one  never  knows  which  comes  first " 

He  paused,  arrested  in  the  egoism,  the  absolute 
individualism  of  love  by  the  mystery  of  the  collective  life 
which  Vv^as  part  even  of  that  love,  and  once  more  his  eyes 
wandered  to  the  sun  setting. 

The  sky  had  darkened  on  the  horizon  as  the  dust  haze 
shadowed  into  purple,  so  that  the  distant  edge  of  the  low 
sand-hills,  losing  definite  outline,  seemed  almost  level. 
Yet  far  and  near,  from  the  feet  of  the  lovers  as  they  sat 
close  together  to  that  uncertain  ending  of  their  visible 
world,  not  a  straight  line  was  to  be  seen.  Everything 
showed  in  curves — curves  that  told  their  unflinching  tale 
of  unseen  circlings.  The  wrinkled  ripples  left  by  the  last 
wind  upon  the  sea  of  sand  around  them  waved  over  the 
endless  undulations  of  the  desert,  the  sparse  tussocks  of 
coarse  grass  fell  in  fountains  from  their  own  centres,  the 
stunted  thorn-bushes  were  coiled  and  twisted  on  them- 
selves like  tangled  skeins  without  a  clue,  the  faint  tracks 
of  the  sand-rats  and  the  partridges  wound  snake-like  in 
every  direction,  and  even  the  footprints  w^hich  had  brought 
the  two  lovers  in  their  present  resting-place  held  the  same 
hint  of  reference  to  unseen  continuity,  for,  absorbed  in 
Love's  new  world,  they  had  wandered  on  aimlessly 
unheeding  of  the  old  one  at  their  feet. 

The  result  stared  them  in  the  face,  now,  in  a  firm  yet 
undecided  trail  that  was  by  far  the  most  salient  feature  in 
the  indefinite  landscape.  Jim  Forrester  laughed  as  he 
directed  her  attention  to  it. 

"  We  seem  to  have  gone  round  and  round  on  our  tracks; 
so  the  tents,  and  your  respected  father  and  civilisation 
generally  must  be — well  1  exactly  where  I  would  have  sworn 
they  were  not.  But  that  just  bears  out  what  I  was  saying. 
For  all  we  know  the  whole  thing  may  be  a  peculiarly  vicious 
circle !    The  world  may  be  going  back  when  we  think  it  is 


THE   SON   OF  A  KING  53 

going  forward,  and  all  the  fine  new  things  we  think  we 
find,  may  only  be  ourselves  again.  You  and  I,  and  the 
buried  city  and  the  gold  coin — everything  that  we  dream 
of,  or  that  dreams  of  us,  may  only  be  part  of  the  hidden 
circle  which  belongs  to  the  curve  of  a  life  w^hich  has  no 
straight  lines — My  God  !  take  care — what  the  devil  is  that?  " 

That,  if  anything,  was  a  straight  line — straight  as  an 
arrow.  And  an  arrow  it  was,  still  vibrating  in  the  soft 
sand  at  their  very  feet.  Jim  Forrester  stood  up  angrily 
and  looked  round  for  the  archer  who  had  drawn  his  bow 
at  such  an  unpleasantly  close  venture.  But  no  one  was 
visible,  so  he  stooped  down  and  drew  the  arrow  out  of  the 
sand.  He  had  seen  its  like,  or  almost  its  like,  before  in 
those  wild  central  tracts  of  sandy  desert  where  the  wandering 
tribes  of  goatherds  still  cling  to  the  weapons  of  a  past 
age.  His  companion,  however,  had  not,  and  she  bent  to 
examine  it  curiousl3^  The  attitude  made  the  fair  coils 
of  her  hair,  which  were  plaited  round  her  head,  look  more 
than  ever  like  a  heavy  gold  crown. 

''It  takes  one  back  to  another  world  altogether,"  she 
said,  watching  him  as  he  balanced  it  critically  to  appraise 
the  perfection  of  its  poise.  "  To  a  world  where  it  was 
made,  perhaps — for  it  looks  old,  doesn't  it !  I  wonder 
who " 

She  paused,  becoming  conscious  that  someone  was 
standing  behind  her.  Jim  Forrester  became  conscious  of 
the  fact  also,  and  showed  it  in  such  an  aggressive  way 
that  she  exclaimed  hastily : 

"Don't  be  angry  with  him,  please.  It  must  have  been 
quite  a  chance— he  couldn't  have  known  we  were  here." 

Even  without  the  plea  it  w^ould  have  been  difficult  for 
the  young  Englishman  to  refuse  the  chance  of  explanation 
to  the  figure  which  had  appeared  so  unexpectedly.  For, 
though  in  all  outward  accessories  it  was  only  that  of  a 
wandering  goatherd,  there  was  a  calm  dignity  about  it 
which  claimed  consideration.  The  fillet  which  bound  the 
hair,  sun-ripened  to  a  rich  brown  on  its  waves  and  curls, 
was  only  a  knotted  bit  of  goats'-hair  string,  but  the  head 
it  encircled  had  a  youthful  buoyancy  such  as  the  Greek 
sculptors    gave    to    the    young    Apollo,     a    resemblance 


54  THE   SON   OF  A   KING 

enhanced  by  the  statuesque  folds  of  the  rough  goats' -hair 
blanketing  which  was  sparsely  draped  over  the  bare, 
sinewy  yet  fine-drawn  frame. 

The  face,  however,  was  faintly  aquiline,  and  the  eyes, 
deep  set  between  prominent  brow  and  cheek  bone,  had  the 
mingled  fire  and  softness  which  in  India  so  often  redeems 
an  otherwise  commonplace  countenance, 

''I  was  stalking  bustard,  Huzoor,"  said  the  goatherd 
frankly,  with  a  flash  of  very  white  teeth,  ''and  being  face 
down  on  the  sand  yonder  behind  the  grasses  sav/  nothing 
till  the  Presences  stood  up,  but  a  glint  of  the  sun  on 
something." 

He  spoke  to  the  man,  but  his  eyes  were  on  the  girl's 
golden  crown  of  hair. 

Jim  Forrester  suddenly  broke  the  arrow  across  his  knee 
and  threw  the  fragments  from  him  into  the  sand  ripples. 

''Hand  me  over  the  bow,  too,"  he  said,  peremptorily, 
then  paused.  "  Hullo  1  Where  the  deuce  did  you  get 
that— it  is  very  old— the  oldest  I've  seen— with  a  looped 
string,  too?"  he  added,  handling  it  curiously. 

The   goatherd   smiled.     "The   Presence   is  welcome   to 
keep  it  if  he  likes.     I  can  get  plenty  more  in  the  old  city." 
Once  again,  in  speaking  to  the  man,  his  eyes,  askance, 
v/ere  on  the  girl. 

She  started.  "In  the  old  city,"  she  echoed,  "Jim!  do 
you  hear  that— then  you  know  where  the  old  city  isT' 

The  goatherd  almost  laughed.     "  Wherefore  not,  malika 
sahiba  (queen-lady).     Have  I  not  lived  in  it  always? " 
"Lived  in  it!    Then  where  is  it?" 

He  swept  a  bronze  hand  in  a  circle  which  clipped  her 
and  him  and  the  distant  horizon. 
"Here,  queen-lady." 

"Here,"  echoed  Jim  Forrester,  incredulously;  "but 
there  are  absolutely  no  signs  of  a  city  here." 

"Plenty,  Huzoor!"  replied  the  goatherd,  "if  the  Pro- 
tector of  the  Poor  will  only  use  his  eyes.  Look  yonder, 
how  the  ground  rises  to  m.eet  the  curve  of  the  sky ;  yonder, 
sahib,  where  the  sunset  red  dyes  deepest." 

The  young  Englishman  looked  and  frowned,  but  the 
girl  gave  a  quick  exclamation,  and  laid  a  hasty,  surprised 


THE   SON   OF  A   KING  55 

touch  on  her  lover's  arm.  ''He  is  right,  Jim,"  she  said; 
"why  didn't  we  notice  it  before?  It  stands  out  quite 
clear — an  even  rise  all  round  centring  on  the  unseen  sun. 
How  very  curious !  Ask  him  his  name,  Jim,  and  all  that, 
so  that  father  may  be  able  to  get  hold  of  him.  Fancy  if 
we  find  the  buried  city — it  would  be  as  good  almost  as 
the  gold  coin,  though  somehow  it  makes  me  feel  creepy." 
She  gave  a  faint  shiver  as  she  spoke. 

''The  queen-lady  should  not  remain  in  the  wilderness 
when  the  sun  has  set,"  came  in  swift  warning  from  the 
goatherd;  "there  is  a  fever  fiend  lurks  in  it  and  brings 
strange  dreams." 

Something  almost  of  familiarity  and  command  in  the 
liquid  yet  vibrant  voice  made  Jim  Forrester  frown  again 
and  say,  shortly,  "Yes;  we  must  get  back;  it  grows  quite 
cold." 

The  girl  looked  half  bewildered  first  to  one  and  then  to 
the  other  of  the  two  tall  figures  that  stood  between  her 
and  the  fast-fading  light,  against  which  she  still  saw  clearly 
that  faint  swelling  domed  blue  shadow,  as  of  some  other 
world  forcing  its  way  through  the  crust  of  the  visible  one. 

So  she  stood  silent,  vaguely  disturbed  while  the  few 
questions  necessary  to  identify  the  man  who  answered  them 
were  asked. 

She  did  not  speak,  indeed,  until  with  faces  set  on  the 

right  path  for  their  camp  and  civilisation  generally,  they 

paused  on  the  top  of  the  first  sand-rippled  wave  to  look 

back.     The  shadowy  dome  was  still  there,  swelling  towards 

the  vanished  sun,  and  from  its  side  the  figure  of  the  young 

goatherd  rose  into  the  darkening  dust  haze.     He  was  calling 

to  his  flock,    and   the   words   of  his  old-time   chant  were 

clearly  audible: 

"  0,  seekers  for  Life's  meat, 
Your  course  is  run  ! 
Come  home  with  weary  feet, 
Rest  is  so  sweet. 

What  though  one  day  be  done? — 
Another  has  begun. 
The  flock,  the  fold  are  one, 
Where  long  years  meet !  " 

*'I  hope  he  told  us  his  real  name  !  "  she  said,  suddenly. 


56  THE    SON    OF    A    KING 


n 

'^  My  dear  child,  all  your  geese  are  swans— and  so  were 
your  poor  mother's  before  you,"  said  her  father.  And  then 
his  eyes  grew  dreamy,  perhaps  over  the  intricacies  of  some 
new  coins  he  was  classifying ;  though,  in  truth,  the  memory 
of  the  young  wife  who  had  left  him  alone  with  a  week-old 
baby  in  the  days  of  his  youth  had  somehow  come  harder 
to  him  during  the  last  few  happier,  more  home-like  years 
since  his  daughter  had  returned  to  take  her  mother's  place 
as  mistress  of  the  house;  for  the  girl  was  very  like  the 
dead  woman. 

She  had  brought  her  father  his  afternoon  cup  of  tea  to 
the  office-tent,  cleared  for  that  brief  recess  of  the  cloud 
of  clerks  and  witnesses,  who  through  the  wide  canvas- 
wings,  set  open  to  let  in  the  air,  could  be  seen  huddled 
in  groups  among  the  sparse  shadows  of  the  stunted  kikar 
trees  amid  which  the  camp  was  pitched.  They  could  be 
heard  also,  since  in  the  limited  leisure  at  their  disposal 
they  were  hubble-hubbling  away  at  their  hookahs  con- 
scientiously; the  noise  in  its  rhythmic,  intermittent 
insistency  seemed  like  a  distant  snore  from  the  sleepy 
desert  of  sand  that  stretched  away  to  the  horizon  on  all 
sides. 

''Of  course,"  he  went  on,  '^you  could  hardly  be 
expected  to  know— though  really,  my  dear,  you  have  all 
your  mother's  quickness  of  perception  regarding  people 
and  places— but  the  mere  fact  of  that  goatherd  fellow 
giving  his  name  as  Khesroo,  and  admitting  he  was  low- 
caste,  should  have  made  you  doubt  his  assertion.  I  confess 
I  had  little  hope,  for  such  knowledge  as  he  professed  to 
have  is  generally  in  the  keeping  of  the  priesthood  only." 

"  But  Jim  was  there— I  mean  Mr.  Forrester,"  she  began. 
Her  father  coughed  uneasily. 

''Because  I  call  my  personal  assistant,  whom  I  have 
known  as  a  child,  Jim,  that  is  no  reason,  my  dear  Queenie, 
why  you  should  contract  the  habit.  I  don't  think  your 
poor  mother  would  have  liked  it.  Besides,  though  he  is 
an  able  young  man — very  much  so,  indeed,  and  when  he 


THE   SON   OF  A   KING  57 

grows  older  will  make  an  excellent  officer — Mr.  Forrester — 
ahem!"  (he  made  a  \4olent  effort  over  the  name)  ''has  no 
genius  for  antiquities.  He  utterly  fails,  for  Instance,  to 
realise  the  far-reaching  importance — for  it  would,  of  course, 
alter  the  whole  chronology  of  the  Grseco-Bactrian  era — of 
my  contention  concerning  what  Hausmann  and  the  German 
school  generally  venture  to  designate  a  post-Vicramaditya. 
Yet  some  day,  I  feel  sure,  the  gold  coin  of  which  Kapala 
gives  so  exact  a  description  in  b.c.  200,  with  the  date  under 
the  legend  and  a  double  profile  on  the  obverse,  will  turn 
up,  and  then  the  point  will  be  settled,  even  if  I  do  not  live 
to  see  it." 

He  was  fairly  off  on  his  hobby  and  had  risen  to  pace 
the  tent,  his  hands  behind  his  back.  Many  a  time  and 
oft  she  had  listened  to  him  patiently,  almost  eagerly,  for 
the  story  of  India's  golden  age  always  fired  her  imagination, 
but  to-day  she  was  thinking  of  other  things — of  her  engage- 
ment for  one,  which  she  must  break  to  him  sooner  or  later. 
So  she  went  up  to  him  and  tucked  her  arm  into  his 
coaxingly. 

"  You  may,  father.  It  might  be  found  any  day.  Do  you 
know,  I  believe  you  would  give  almost  anything — even  your 
daughter— for  that  ducat.     Wouldn't  youl" 

Absolute  jest  as  it  was,  her  voice  trembled  over  the 
trivial  words,  as  voices  often  do  unconsciously  when  Fate 
means  to  turn  them  to  her  own  purposes. 

He  smiled  and  patted  her  hand.  "Undoubtedly,  I 
would,  my  dear.  But,  nice  as  you  are^  no  one  is  likely 
to  offer  me  that  exchange.  To  begin  with,  the  coin,  as 
a  simple  unique,  would  be  worth  a  fortune,  and  then  there 
is  the  fame.  Think  of  it!  Half  the  philologists,  most  of 
the  historians,  and  all  those  German  fellows  routed  on  their 
own  ground ! " 

"Who  know^s?"  she  said,  and  then  a  frown  dimmed 
the  amusement  in  her  eyes.  "  Though  I  can't  understand," 
she  added,  "why  that  man  Khesroo  denied— as  you  say 
he  did — having  met  Jim — I  mean,  us — yesterday.  He 
can't  be  the  wrong  man,  can  he?  " 

"Mr.  Forrester  thinks  he  is  not.  But  you  can  see  for 
yourself,"  replied  her  father,  returning  to  his  tea  and  his 


58  THE   SON   OF  A  KING 

treasures,  ''for  he  is  still  over  in  the  orderlies'  tent.  They 
had  such  trouble  hunting  him  out  of  the  jungles  and 
persuading  him  to  come  here  that  they  said  they  must  keep 
him  overnight,  anyhov/,  in  case  he  was  wanted." 

An  hour  or  so  afterwards,  therefore,  a  yellow-legged 
constable  escorted  the  goatherd  who  had  answered  to  the 
name  of  Khesroo  into  the  verandah  of  the  Miss-Sahiba's 
drawing-room  tent.  It,  also,  was  set  wide  to  the  cool  of 
the  desert  evening,  and  its  easy-chairs  and  low,  flov/er- 
decked  tables  strewn  with  books  and  magazines  struck  a 
curiously  dissonant  note  from  that  sounded  by  the  wilder- 
ness of  sandy  waste  which  on  all  sides  hemmed  in  the 
little  square  of  white-winged  camp  with  a  certain  hungry 
emptiness. 

"He  is  the  man,  Jim,"  said  the  girl,  in  an  undertone 
(for  her  father  had  come  over  from  office  and  was  seated 
within,  reading  the  daily  papers  which  the  camel-post  had 
just  brought).  ''And  yet — he  looks  different  somehow — 
and  so  ill,  too." 

He  did  look  ill,  with  the  languid  yet  harassed  air  which 
follows  on  malarial  fever.  The  buoyancy  of  his  carriage 
was  replaced  by  an  almost  dejected  air.  Yet  it  was 
unmistakably  the  goatherd  they  had  met  the  evening 
before,  who,  in  obedience  to  a  sign,  squatted  down  midway, 
as  it  were,  between  the  culture  inside  the  tent  and  the 
savagery  without  it. 

"You  look  as  if  you  had  been  having  fever — have  you*?  " 
asked  the  girl  abruptly,  for  her  years  of  authority  had  made 
her  knowledgeable  in  such  things. 

"  The  malika  sahiba  says  right,"  replied  Khesroo, 
indifferently.     "I  have  had  it  much — this  long  while  back." 

"And  you  had  it  yesterday  or  the  day  before?" 

"It  was  yesterday.     I  was  put  past  by  it  all  day.     And 

yet "  here  a  vague  perplexity  came  to  the  dulled  yet 

anxious  face  as  he  looked  first  at  the  girl,  then  apolo- 
getically at  Jim  Forrester.  "  What  the  Presence  said  about 
meeting  me  is  perhaps  right  after  all.  Yes !  it  is  right.  I 
did  see  the  Huzoor.  I  have  remembered  from  the  gracious- 
ness  of  the  queen-lady  and  the  gold  crown  of  her  hair." 

The  young  Englishman  frowned   angrily.     "  You  work 


THE   SON   OF   A  KING  59 

miracles  in  memory,  my  dear  Queenie,"  he  said,  and  there 
was  quite  an  aggrieved  tone  in  his  voice  as  he  turned 
shortly  on  the  speaker.  ''  Why  on  earth  didn't  you  tell  the 
truth  before,  then?  And  the  old  city'?  I  suppose  yoa 
remember  all  about  that,  tool" 

''The  old  city,"  echoed  Khesroo,  doubtfully.  "No, 
Huzoor  !  What  should  I  know  about  it  beyond  what  all 
know — that  there  was  a  city,   and  that  it  is  lost?     Such 

as  I  know  only  what  the  wise  tell  them "  he  paused, 

and  even  to  his  deprecation  came  a  half-resigned  self- 
assertion,  "And  yet  I  had  more  chance  than  most,  seeing 
that  my  mother  was  twice-born." 

"  She  was,  was  she  1 "  put  in  his  hearer,  and  then  looked 
round  towards  his  chief.  "Do  you  hear  that,  sir?  His 
mother  was  a  Brahmani — that  may  account  for  his  profile, 
which  you  said  this  morning  puzzled  you  in  a  low-caste 
man." 

"I  said  it  was  Scythic  in  type,  and  so  it  is,"  was  the 
answer,  as  the  speaker  laid  down  his  paper  and  came 
forward  for  further  inspection.  "So  your  mother  was 
twice-born,"  he  continued,  addressing  the  goatherd;  "a 
child-widow,  I  suppose  1 " 

Khesroo  stretched  his  hand  out,  the  fingers  wide-spread 
in  a  dignified  assent,  which  suited  him  better  than  his 
former  almost  cringing  humility. 

"  Huzoor,  yes !  Her  people,  however,  did  not  find  her 
till  I  was  nigh  six;  but  after  that,  of  course,  I  was  alone." 

A  hush  fell  on  the  group,  for— to  those  three  listeners 
who  understood  them — the  simple  words  told  of  a  common 
enough  tragedy  in  India ;  of  a  life  denied  all  natural  outlet, 
of  unworthy  love,  of  outraged  pride  of  race  followed  by 
sure,  if  slow,  revenge. 

"And  your  father — w^ho  was  he?" 

Kresroo  shook  his  head.  "  I  had  no  one  but  my  mother, 
Huzoor." 

There  was  another  hush,  on  which  the  girl's  voice  rose 
clear  w4th  a  curious  thrill  ir.  it. 

"And  she  was  very  beautiful,  was  she  not?" 

"Her  son  is  a  good-looking  fellow,  at  any  rate," 
remarked  Jim  Forrester,  coolly,  and  moving  away,  he  took 


60  THE   SON   OF  A   KING 

up  the  newspaper,  conscious  of  a  certain  irritation,  and 
began  to  read  the  latest  report  of  wireless  telegraphy  with 
the  unsuspicious  and  unquestioning  assent  which  we  of 
these  latter  days  reserve  for  the  marvels  of  matter  only. 

Her  father  having  gone  back  to  his  papers  also,  the 
girl  and  the  goatherd  were  left  alone  midway  between 
civilisation  and  savagery.  Huddled  in  his  coarse  blanket- 
ing, his  bare  arms  crossed  over  his  bare  knees,  there  was 
nothing  distinctive  or  unusual  in  Khesroo's  figure,  behind 
which  the  background  of  shadowy  desert  was  fast  fading  into 
shadowy  sky,  except  the  haggardness  of  the  aquiline  face, 
the  hollowness  of  the  dark  eyes.  These  struck  her,  and 
she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  feel  his. 

"Have  you  fever  now?    No,  you  are  quite  cool." 

He  shivered  slightly  at  her  touch,  and  his  eyes,  passing 
hers,  seemed  to  rest  on  the  plaits  of  her  hair. 

"No,  Huzoor,"  he  replied,  "it  is  a  thief  fever — it  is 
hard  to  catch." 

She  smiled.     "I  think  quinine  will  manage  it." 

He  shook  his  head.  "Nothing  catches  that  which  robs 
us  of  life  at  its  own  time.  It  will  leave  me  none  some  day." 
He  spoke  unconcernedly,  as  if  the  fact  were  beyond 
question. 

"  Then  why  do  you  wear  that  amulet  if  it  is  of  no  use  1 " 
she  said,  pointing  to  the  little  leathern  bag,  such  as  the 
wild  tribes  use  for  the  carrying  of  charms,  which  was  tied 
round  his  arm. 

Khesroo  shook  his  head  again,  but  smiled  this  time,  and 
the  flash  of  his  white  teeth  must  have  removed  any  doubt 
of  his  identity,  had  such  doubt  existed. 

"The  queen-lady  mistakes,"  he  said.  "It  does  not 
contain  a  charm.     It  is  my  photongrar.'^ 

"Your  what?"  she  echoed,  uncomprehending. 

''  Photongrar.  The  picture,  Huzoor,  that  the  sun  holds 
always  of  all  things  it  has  ever  seen  in  the  world.  It 
showed  this  to  a  memsahiba  long  ago  when  I  was  little,  and 
she  showed  it  to  my  mother." 

"  You  mean  your  photograph  1 " 

"  Huzoor,  yes !    Perhaps  the  queen-lady  might  care  to 


THE   SON   OF  A   KING  61 

fiee  it,  since  it  is  like  my  mother  as  she  was — before  they 
found  her ! " 

Perhaps  it  was  the  thought  of  what  the  poor  woman 
must  have  been  like  after  that  finding  which  made  the 
English  girl  feel  a  vague  oppression  as  she  took  the  tight 
roll  of  paper  that  Khesroo  unfolded  from  a  piece  of  red  rag. 

''I  was  five,  Huzoor,^'  he  said  simply,  ''and  my  mother 
loved  me  much." 

Small  wonder,  was  the  girl's  first  thought  as  she  looked 
at  the  sedate,  yet  childish  face,  half-concealed  by  the  high 
turban,  which  had  evidently  been  borrowed  for  the  occasion, 
at  the  quaint  dignity  of  the  childish  figure  huddled  into 
finery  too  large  for  it,  and  holding  a  flower  in  its  hand  as 
if  it  had  been  a  sceptre.  But  as  she  looked,  a  startled 
expression  came  over  her  face;  she  stood  up  and  hurried 
to  her  father,  with  appeal  in  her  voice. 

"  Oh,  father  !  do  look  here  !  How  very  curious  !  This 
photograph  of  Khesroo  when  he  was  a  child — I  think  mother 
must  have  taken  it,  for  I  am  almost  sure  there  is  one  like 
it  in  her  diary — in  the  volume  you  gave  me  to  read  the 
other  day,  because  we  were  camping  through  the  same 
country.     Stay!    I'll  fetch  it " 

She  was  back  in  a  moment  with  an  unclasped  book  in 
her  hand,  and  fluttered  hastily  through  pages  and  sketches, 
almost  to  the  end. 

"There!"  she  cried,  suddenly,  "I  was  sure  of  it!" 

Her  father  laid  the  one  photograph  beside  the  other, 
and  Jim  Forrester,  looking  over  his  shoulder  curiously, 
compared  them  also.  They  were  identical.  But  under- 
neath the  one  pasted  into  the  book  a  woman's  hand  had 
written : 

"The  Son  of  a  King/" 

The  title  fitted  the  picture,  and  reminded  the  girl  of  some- 
thing in  Khesroo  which  had  struck  her  yesterday  and 
which  was  absent  to-day.  She  turned  over  the  page,  but 
beyond  it  all  was  blank.  Those  words  were  the  last  in 
the  diary. 

"I  think  I  remember  something  about  it  now,  my  dear," 
said  her  father,  taking  his  hand  away  from  the  book  gently ; 
"it  may  have  been  the  last  she  took,  for  I  was  camping 


62  THE   SON   OF  A  KING 

round  here  as  assistant  just  before — before  you  were  born. 
And  she  was  alw^ays  taking  children  and  giving  pictures 
to  the  mothers;  not  that  I  remember  that  particular  one — 
you  see  it  must  be  fifteen  years  ago — at  least." 

''Nearer  five-and-twenty,  dear,"  she  said,  softly,  and 
as  she  realised  the  impotence  of  what  the  world  counts 
as  time  to  touch  the  smallest  thing  that  once  has  been, 
the  utter  irrelevance  of  days  and  weeks  and  years  in  con- 
nection with  a  single  thought,  the  photographs  before  her 
grew  dim  to  her  eyes,  the  fine  feminine  writing  with  its 
verdict,  "  The  Son  of  a  King,"  became  invisible. 

So  through  her  tears  she  saw  only — ^blurred  and  indis- 
tinct— the  wondering  face  of  Khesroo  the  goatherd. 

''Lookl"  she  said,  in  sudden  impulse.  ''The  sun  must 
have  held  two  pictures  of  you." 

He  stared  at  the  duplicate  stupidly.  "I  did  not  steal 
it,"  he  began,  uneasily. 

"Of  course  you  didn't,"  she  replied,  smiling  now.  "It 
was  my  mother  who  took  the  picture,  and  gave  it  to  yours — 
she  was  the  mem-sahiba  you  spoke  of — perhaps  you 
remember  her'? " 

A  look  almost  of  relief  came  to  the  goatherd's  haggard, 
anxious  face.  "Yes!  Perhaps  your  slave  remembers,  and 
that  is  why  he  thought  he  recollected  the  graciousness  of 
the  queen-lady  and  the  gold  crown  of  her  hair.  That  will 
be  it,  and  your  slave  did  not  lie  to  the  Huzoor."  He 
looked  apologetically  towards  the  young  Englishman;  but 
the  latter  had  once  more  an  aggrieved  tone  in  his  voice  as 
he  said  shortly  in  English : 

"Whether  he  did  or  did  not  doesn't  much  matter. 
There  isn't  anything  to  be  got  out  of  him  apparently,  so 
perhaps  you  had  better  tell  the  orderly  to  take  him  back 
to  the  tent  and  see  that  he  takes  the  quinine  you  send — as 
I  suppose  you  will." 


THE   SON   OF  A  KING  63 


m 

"I  meant  to  tell  him  yesterday,  Jim,"  said  the  girl,  in 
an  undertone,  glancing  with  almost  maternal  solicitude  at 
her  father,  who  was  writing  within,  his  grey,  somewhat 
bald  head  shining  out  in  the  light  of  the  lamp  by  which  he 
was  working,  against  the  intense  shadowy  darkness  of  the 
tent  walls,  "but  that  disappointment  about  the  lost  city, 
wasn't,  so  to  say,  propitious.  And  to-day  there  was  that 
letter  from  Hausmann  about  the  coin  somebody  has  dis- 
covered, which  has  quite  upset  him.  Poor  father,"  she 
added,  turning  to  her  lover  again,  "it  will  be  hard  on  him. 
Did  you  notice  how  he  said  it  was  but  fifteen  years  .  .  ." 

She  broke  off  and  looked  out  into  the  night.  The  stars 
were  showing  overhead  through  the  fine  fret  of  the  kikar 
trees,  though  the  horizon  still  held  a  hint  of  the  day  that 
was  dead.  Against  this  paler  background  she  fancied  she 
could  see — itself  a  shadow,  yet  half  hidden  by  shadow — 
that  curving  dome  as  of  a  new  world  forcing  its  way 
through  the  crust  of  the  old,  or  an  old  one  through  the 
new. 

"It  was  odd  about  those  photographs,  wasn't  it?"  she 
said,  irrelevantly.    "  He  must  be  five  years  older  than  I  am." 

"His  age  is  honoured  by  the  comparison." 

"My  dear  Jim,"  she  interrupted,  opening  her  eyes, 
"this  unfortunate  goatherd  seems " 

"I  said  he  was  fortunate,  I  think.  But  I  admit  hating 
things  I  don't  quite  understand." 

"  Then  you  must  hate  me — now  don't  be  angry,"  she 
added:  "I  mean  no  blame.  I  very  often  don't  understand 
myself." 

"I  know  that — and  that  is  why  I  want  this  business 
settled  and  clear — you — ^you  seem  so  far  off  sometimes." 

There  was  a  passion  in  his  voice ;  he  stretched  his  hands 
out  to  her  as  she  stood  apart,  her  filmy  dinner  dress  looking 
ghostly  and  elusive  seen  half  in  the  dark,  half  by  the  feeble 
light  from  within  the  tent. 

She   stretched  out  her  hands  also,  but  there  was  all 


64  THE  SON   OF  A  KING 

the  world  between  his  almost  pathetic  appeal  and  her 
almost  amused  repulse. 

''You  must  make  haste  and  find  the  ducat,  Jim.  I  feel 
sure  that  without  it — and  especially  in  his  present  mood — 
father  will  never  consent " 

He  certainly  did  not  seem  in  a  consenting  frame  of  mind 
as  he  came  out  to  them  with  the  offending  letter  from 
Hausmann  in  his  hand. 

''I've  answered  it,"  he  said,  sternly,  "  but  as  the  man  is 
an  ass,  he  will  most  likely  miss  the  point,  which  is,  of 
course,  Kapala's  description  of  this  coin.  He  says  dis- 
tinctly that  it  has  one  profile  superimposed  on  another 
with  the  legend  beneath,  and  the  date  below  the  flower 
on  the  obverse.  Eeally,  child,  I  think  I  will  get  you  to 
figure  it  for  me,  since  Hausmann  seems  unable  to  under- 
stand words." 

"  You  could  use  the  handsome  goatherd  as  a  model,  you 
know,"  remarked  Jim  Forrester,  vaguely  surprised  at  his 
own  irritation  ;  "  your  father  said  his  features  were  Scythic." 

"Yesl"  assented  the  numismatist,  abstractedly,  as  he 
tried  to  re-read  part  of  the  offending  missive  by  the  distant 
light  of  the  lamp;  "rather  an  uncommon  type  in  India, 
nowadays,  though  one  sees  it  elsewhere.  Queenie  has  it 
partly — your  mother  had  Russian  blood  in  her,  you  know." 

"Perhaps  that  is  why  I  feel  so  interested  in  Khesroo," 
said  the  girl,  looking  coldly  askance  at  her  lover. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  put  in  her  father,  breaking  in  on 
his  own  indignation  and  the  silence  v/hich  ensued  between 
those  two  who  loved  each  other — a  silence  which  both  felt 
to  be  at  once  incomprehensible  yet  inevitable,  intolerable 
i[et  in  a  way  lascinating — "  that  reminds  me.  The  orderlies 
reported  he  was  bad  with  fever  to-night.  Send  him  over 
some  more  quinine." 

"I'll  take  it,  if  you  like,"  said  Jim  Forrester,  faintly 
penitent. 

She  looked  at  the  two  men  with  disdainful  tolerance. 
"I  will  see  him  first.  One  never  knows  what  these  people 
call  fever — it  may  be  pneumonia." 

She  moved  off  as  she  spoke,  into  the  night,  meaning  to 
cross   over  towards  the   orderlies'    tent,    then   paused   to 


THE   SON   OF  A  KING  65 

glance  back  at  the  figure  which  followed.  ''Are  you 
coming,  too?  "  she  said,  curtly.     "I  can  manage  all  right." 

"  Of  course  I  am  coming  !  "  replied  Jim  Forrester.  ''It 
is  pitch  dark,  to  begin  with,  and  I  can  at  least  help  you  to 
find  your  patient.  I  think  you  had  better  keep  outside  the 
camp,  so  as  to  avoid  the  tent-ropes — it  isn't  any  longer, 
really.'' 

It  was,  if  anything,  shorter,  but  it  brought  them 
instantly  into  the  grip,  as  it  were,  of  the  desert,  which 
crept  hungrily  upon  the  camp  on  all  sides;  so  that,  ere 
they  had  gone  five  steps  beyond  the  canvas  wings  of  the 
tent,  they  seemed  as  much  alone,  as  far  from  conventional 
twentieth-century  life,  as  they  had  been  two  days  before, 
when  they  first  sat  together  as  betrothed  lovers  in  the 
sunset  of  a  world  of  curves  telling  the  tale  of  eternal,  of 
unseen  circlings.  Even  so  much  of  Life's  secret  was 
invisible  now.  All  they  saw  was  a  darkness  they  knew 
to  be  wilderness,  a  dim  outline  of  themselves,  close 
together,  hand  in  hand.  For  with  the  knowledge  that  they 
were  alone — perhaps  with  the  memory  of  the  wilderness — 
they  had  clasped  hands  instinctively,  and  for  the  time  the 
sense  of  stress  and  strain  had  passed. 

It  returned  again,  however,  with  curious  vividness,  as, 
right  in  their  path,  a  shadow,  dim  as  their  own,  showed 
suddenly. 

She  knew  who  it  was  instinctively  before  it  spoke. 

"I  thought  you  had  fever,"  she  said.  "Why  are  you 
here?" 

"I  have  been  waiting  the  graciousness  of  the  queen- 
lady,"  came  the  reply,  and  the  voice  was  buoyant  with 
joyous  vitality.  "I  have  to  tell  her  my  dreams — the  fever 
always  brings  dreams,  and  I  remember  now !  Yea !  I 
remember  all  things  from  the  beginning.  So,  if  she  will 
come,  I  will  show  her  the  lost  city  where  we  lived,  and 
she  will  dream  the  dream  also." 

Dimly,  in  the  darkness,  she  fancied  she  could  see  the 
shining  of  his  eyes,  see  his  beckoning  hand.  What  her 
lover  saw  was  a  movement  of  the  shadow  towards  the 
wilderness :  what  he  felt  was  a  faint  increase  in  the  distance 
between  his  hand  and  hers  which  made  him  claim  it  again. 


66  THE   SON   OF  A  KING 

*'  Queenie  !  "  he  cried,  ''  what  are  you  thinking  of  ?  V ou 
can't  possibly  go  now.  The  man  is  delirious  with  fever — 
surely  you  hear  that  in  his  voice.  You  had  better  come 
back  to  the  tent  and  let  me  send  someone  to  take  him  into 
shelter  and  look  after  him." 

For  an  instant  no  one  spoke,  and  then  it  seemed  almost 
a  bodiless  voice  from  the  desert  which  broke  the  silence, 
for  in  his  desire  to  detain  her,  Jim  Forrester  had  drawn 
the  girl  back  a  pace  or  two,  so  that  the  darkness  lay  deeper 
between  their  two  shadows  and  that  third  one  nearer  the 
w^ilderness. 

*'  Let  the  queen-lady  decide  for  herself.  If  she  comes, 
I  will  show  her  all  forgotten  things — the  golden  crown  that 
i5  not  plaited  hair,  the  golden  coin  that  was  made  for  the 
lovers " 

*'Jim,"  she  whispered,  almost  fiercely,  ''do  you  hear? 
It  is  the  gold  coin — it  is  waiting  to  be  found.   I  must  go " 

''This  is  pure  folly,"  protested  the  young  Englishman. 
■*If  anyone  has  to  go,  I  will,  of  course.  But  what  hurry 
is  there?  Why  not  wait  till  to-morrow — now,  do  be 
reasonable,  Queenie,  and  consider " 

She  ceased  trying  to  release  her  hand,  and  when  she 
fipoke  again  it  was  in  a  natural  tone. 

"Yes.  I  forgot  that.  Khesroo,  I  will  come  with  you 
to-morrow.  It  will  be  easier  by  daylight.  Go  back  to  the 
orderlies'  tent  now,  and  I  will  send  you  over  some  more 
medicine,  and  when  the  fever  has  gone '^ 

"  The  dreams  will  have  gone,  too,"  came  the  voice  out 
of  the  night ;  but  it,  also,  was  more  natural,  more  like  that 
of  Khesroo  the  goatherd.  "  I  shall  forget  again,  and  then 
the  gold  coin  that  was  struck  for  her  and  her  lover " 

"For  her  and  her  lover,"  echoed  the  girl,  softly.  "Did 
you  hear,  Jim?    I  must  go  and  get  it  for  you." 

"  Long — long  ago "  came  the  voice  again. 

She  echoed  the  words  almost  inaudibly  this  time,  and 
Jim  Forrester  drew  her  closer  as  he  said  sharply:  "If 
anyone  goes,  I  will;  but  I  don't  see " 

The  voice  interrupted  him.  "But  the  queen-lady  sees. 
She  is  like  her  mother;  she  sees  pictures  in  the  sun.     Of 


THE   SON   OF  A   KING  67 

course,  the  Huzoor  can  come;  but  if  the  queen-lady  really 
wants  this  thing — if  she  belie\es— if  she  trusts '' 

''  Let  me  go,  Jim  !  let  me  go  1 " 

''  You  shall  not,"  he  cried,  seizing  her  round  the  waist 
in  swift  antagonism  to  some  unseen  influence,  in  sudden 
consciousness  of  conflict. 

And  so  to  both  him  and  her  in  the  darkness  and  stiUness 
of  the  desert,  within  a  few  steps  only  of  quiet,  comfortable, 
commonplace  civilisation,  came  like  a  whirlwind  a  perfect 
tumult  of  bewildering  emotions,  and  all  the  deathless  forces 
which  never  slumber  or  sleep  in  their  work  of  moulding 
the  soul  of  man,  leapt  from  silence  into  speech.  Love, 
jealousy,  hatred,  resolve,  high  courage— all  these  seemed 
to  sweep  through  their  every  fibre  of  mind  and  body, 
leaving  them  breathless,  wondering,  uncertain  if  they  were 
awake  or  dreaming,  if  they  w^ere  real  or  mere  shadows 
of  a  reality  which  Time  cannot  touch  or  alter.  For  an 
instant  only  they  were  conscious  of  all  this — but  the  instant 
might  have  been  an  hour  in  its  suggestion  of  infinite 
experience. 

Then  Time  claimed  them  once  more^  time  and  trivialities 
and  commonsense,  so  that  ten  minutes  afterwards,  Jim 
Forrester,  having  made  his  preparations  for  a  tramp  into 
the  desert,  was  stooping  to  say  good-night  to  his  betrothed 
and  to  assure  her  of  his  speedy  return.  The  moon  would 
rise  in  half-an-hour,  the  distance  to  the  place  where  they 
had  first  met  Khesroo  could  not  be  over  three  miles,  he 
would  be  back  by  midnight. 

Meanwhile,  she  could  tell  her  father  he  had  turned  in, 
but  if  she  chose  herself  to  sit  up — well  .  .  . 

As  their  lips  met  lingeringly,  a  little  breeze  that  had 
wandered  from  the  desert  shifted  a  ripple  or  two  on  the 
sand-waves  about  their  feet,  and  died  away  like  a  sigh  in 
the  fine  fret  of  the  kikar  trees  above  the  unseen  tents. 


E  2 


68  THE    SON    OF    A    KING 

IV 

It  was  an  hour  before  dawn. 

The  desert  itself  could  scarcely  have  been  stiller  than 
the  camp.  In  the  white  moonlight  the  white  tents  looked 
like  some  shrouded  city  of  the  dead,  forgotten  yet 
unburied;  for,  here  and  there,  some  out  in  the  moonlit 
open,  other  flecked  with  the  fine  shadow  of  the  Hkar  trees, 
lay  corpse-like  figures  swathed  in  sheets,  as  if  waiting  for 
their  graves.  There  was  no  sound,  no  sign  of  life,  not 
even  where  the  moonlight,  slanting  through  the  still, 
wide-set  wings  of  the  drawing-room  tent,  showed  the  folds 
of  a  woman's  dress,  the  daintiness  of  a  high-heeled  shoe. 

The  rest  of  the  figure  was  in  shadow,  though  the  light, 
in  its  last  effort  against  the  darkness  of  the  tent,  claimed 
the  pages  of  the  open  book  which  lay  on  the  sleeping  girl's 
lap,  and  turned  one  of  them  into  a  silver  framing  for  the 
photograph  of  a  child.  So  vivid  was  the  light  that  even 
the  fiiue  feminine  writing  beneath  it  showed  in  the  dead 
woman's  verdict: 

"  The  Son  of  a  King/" 

For  the  girl  had  been  pondering  over  the  strange  chance 
which  had  brought  her,  in  her  turn,  within  the  influence 
of  this  nameless  kingship  when,  as  she  waited  for  her 
lover's  return,  she  had  fallen  asleep  in  her  chair.  And 
yet,  as  she  had  sat  there,  thinking,  watching,  she  had  felt 
very  wide  awake  indeed.  Not  with  anxiety,  however;  that 
had  passed.  In  fact,  as  she  followed  in  her  mind  what  had 
gone  before  Jim  Forrester's  quite  prosaic  start  to  walk 
three  or  four  miles  into  the  wilderness  on  a  moonlight 
night  to  be  shown  the  bearings  of  a  buried  city  and  possibly 
to  be  given  proof  positive  that  there  were  ruins  beneath 
the  sand,  she  had  been  in  grave  doubt  as  to  what  had 
actually  occurred.  Had  there  been  conflict"?  Had  love 
and  jealousy  and  hatred  and  resolve  risen  up  and  claimed 
them  all?  Surely  not.  Why,  indeed,  should  it  be  sol 
Though,  doubtless,  in  her,  in  her  lover,  in  the  goatherd, 
there  v,'as  something  held,  as  it  were,  in  common,  yet  which 
had  struggled  to  be  individual,  separate. 

And   this  had  been  most  marked  between  the  young 


THE   SON   OF  A   KING  60 

Englishman  and  the  goatherd.  Unaccountable  as  it  -was, 
she  felt  that  in  some  mysterious  fundamental  mind  of  hers 
these  two  were  associated  indissolubly — that  they  stood 
towards  her  on  the  same  plane.  Nay,  more  1  that  it  was 
the  consciousness  of  this  which  kept  her  calm,  which  over- 
bore the  possibility  of  future  danger,  the  memory  of  past 
conflict.  What  harm  could  happen  to  the  Son  of  a  King 
or  with  the  Son  of  a  King? 

The  phrase  had  been  on  her  lips  as  she  fell  asleep.  It 
was  on  them  as  she  awoke  and  stood  up  suddenly,  the 
open  book  sliding  soundless  from  her  lap  into  the  soft 
sand.  But  the  phrase  brought  no  comfort  with  it  now. 
Had  she  been  asleep  for  long?  Had  her  lover  returned? 
Was  it  past  midnight  1 

The  anxious  questions  surged  up  through  the  crust  of 
calm  before  she  was  half  awake,  and  instinctively  she 
was  outside  the  t^nt  in  a  moment  on  her  way  towards  her 
lover's,  her  rapid  feet,  shod  in  the  dainty  high-heeled 
slippers,  dimpling  the  shifting  sand. 

The  coming  dawn  had  sent  cloud  heralds  t^  the  west, 
and  an  advanced  pursuivant,  drifting  across  the  moon, 
shadowed  all  things  faintly  and  seemed  to  increase  the 
silence. 

She  called  softly;  there  was  no  reply,  so  she  locked  in. 
A  glance  told  her  that  her  lover  had  not  returned,  and  the 
light  stealing  in  through  the  uplifted  screen  showed  her 
by  the  travelling-clock  hung  to  the  t-ent-pole  that  it  was 
already  past  three  o'clock. 

Three  !  What  had  happened — and  what  was  to  be  done  ? 
For  an  instant  the  ordinary  inrush  of  anxiety  made  her 
think  of  rousing  the  camp,  of  sending  out  search-parties ; 
but  the  next  brought  her  a  curious  conviction  that  in  this 
case  danger  lay  in  seeking  outside  help :  a  certainty  that 
in  this  matter  she  must  stand  alone,  that  in  this  crisis — 
whatever  it  was — there  must  be  but  three  alone — if,  indeed, 
there  were  three — herself,  her  lover,  and  this  nameless  Son 
of  a  King. 

So,  almost  without  a  pause,  the  dimples  left  by  her 
rapid  feet  were  curving  towards  the  highest  sand-wave 
within  sight  of  the  camp.     Thence   she  could  watch  the 


70  THE   SON   OF  A  KING 

desert  sea,  and  perhaps  find  him,  even  now,  close  at  hand. 
But  once  there,  the  next  sand-wave  attracted  her  as  being 
a  better  point  of  vantage,  and  so  from  wave  to  wave  she 
flitted  in  her  white  dress  like  some  desert  bird,  leaving 
behind  her  a  curved  track  of  dimples  in  the  sliding  sand, 
until  a  little  wind,  the  herald  blast  of  the  hurrying  clouds 
overhead,  crept  low  down  over  the  world  and  swept  the 
dimples  back  into  the  old  ripples. 

''Khesroo!"  she  called,  suddenly,  for  a  shadow  seemed 
beside  hers  in  that  empty  wilderness;  but  there  was  no 
answer. 

''Jim!"  she  called  again,  uncertainly;  but  there  was  no 
reply.  Yet  she  was  not  frightened.  She  knew  now,  in  that 
mysterious  fundamental  mind  of  hers,  that  she  alone  was 
responsible,  that  she,  and  she  only,  could  solve  the  riddle. 
Khesroo  had  been  right.  If  she  wanted  this  thing,  if  she 
had  believed,  if  she  had  trusted,  she  would  have  gone 
before.  And  now  she  must  hurry,  or  it  would  be  too  late 
— wherefore  or  for  what  she  scarcely  considered. 

"Khesroo!"  she  called  once  more,  and  this  time  there 
was  a  faint  inflection  of  fear  in  her  voice;  for  was  that 
figure  Khesroo,  the  goatherd,  or  was  it  her  lover  1  Or  was 
it  neither;  but  someone  only  of  whom  she  had  dreamt  as 
the  Son  of  a  King? 

Should  she  go  back?  The  wish  struck  her  keenly,  but 
she  ignored  it,  and  went  on.  She  must,  she  knew,  have 
left  the  camp  far  behind  her,  and,  if  she  had  kept  the 
right  direction,  would  soon  be  close  on  the  spot  where  that 
straight  line  of  an  arrow  had  startled  her  by  its  intrusion 
into  her  dream  of  love. 

If  she  had  kept  it !  And  surely  she  had,  for  behind  her 
the  east  was  faintly  lightening  with  the  dawn.  Yonder,  there- 
fore, in  the  dark  of  the  heralding  clouds  which  had  huddled 
upon  the  western  horizon  must  lie  the  domed  shadows  of 
the  buried  city. 

''Khesroo!"  she  cried,  instinctively,  the  very  soul  of 
her  speaking,  "  show  it  to  me  !  For  the  sake  of  the  woman 
who  died,  as  women  die  for  a  life  of  love,  a  love  of  life, 
show  it  to  me  !  " 

And  then,  behind  her,   she  heard  a  voice  chanting,   as 


I 


THE   SON   OF  A  KING  71 

Khesroo,  the  goatherd,  had  chanted,  the  call  of  guidance 
for  the  wanderers  in  the  desert.  Yet  the  words  were 
different;  for  these  were  they: 

"  Seekers  for  sleep,  arise  ! 

Your  rest  is  done. 

Go  forth  with  weary  eyes 

To  find  your  prize 

In  vain,  in  vain !     To  none 

Will  slumber  have  begun 

Till  from  the  heart  of  one 
Desire  dies." 
Listening,  she  turned  to  look,  then  realised  that  in  her 
searching  she  must  once  more  have  circled  back  on  her 
own  footsteps,  for  behind  and  not  before  her,  dark,  clear, 
unmistakable,  the  domed  shadow  of  the  lost  city  lay 
against  the  lightening  east.  And  on  its  swelling  side,  as 
Khesroo  had  stood  before,  he  stood  again.  Was  it  the 
rising  sun  which  turned  the  fillet  of  knotted  cord  about 
his  head  to  gold? — which  dyed  the  coarse  blanketing  to 
royal  purple,  and  transformed  the  wearer  into  the  perfect 
kingliness  of  buoyant  youth  and  beauty  1  She  never  knew. 
She  only  felt  that  something  stronger  than  herself  caught 
her,  held  her,  clasped  her,  and  yet  drew  her  on,  so  that 
with  hands  outstretched  she  ran  towards  it,  crying  between 
smiles  and  tears : 

''  The  Son  of  a  King  !  The  Son  of  a  King !  '* 
The  next  instant  she  had  tripped  and  fallen  heavily  on 
her  face  over  a  tangled  tuft  of  grass  concealing  an  unusually 
deep  descent  of  a  desert  wave.  As  she  picked  herself  up, 
confused,  somewhat  dazed,  and  paused  to  free  her  eyes 
from  the  sand  grains  which  clouded  them,  something  almost 
at  her  feet  brought  her  back  to  realities,  and  she  gave  a 
quick  exclamation.  For  in  the  hollow  beneath  the  wave, 
where  he  had  evidently  sought  shelter  deliberately,  Jim 
Forrester  lay  curled  up  comfortably,  fast  asleep.  At  least, 
so  it  seemed,  though  Khesroo's  quaint  old  bow  must  surely 
make  rather  an  uncomfortable  pillow. 

She  stooped  over  the  sleeping  man,  and  for  an  instant 
her  face  whitened ;  she  bent  lower  to  listen  to  his  breathing. 
And  as  she  listened  a  couple  of  startled  sand-chaffs  fled 
from  a  neighbouring  thorn  bush,  their  chuckling  cry 
echoing  over  the  desert  like  an  evil  laugh. 


72  THE  SON  OF  A  KING 

But  a  minute  afterwards,  in  answer  to  her  touchy  Jim 
Forrester  was  staring  at  her  trying  to  collect  his  sleep- 
scattered  senses. 

**  Hullo  ! "  he  said,  slowly.  *'  How  on  earth  did  I— Ah  ! 
I  remember.  That  brute  of  a  goatherd  played  the  garden 
ass  and  I  lost  him,  so  after  wandering  about  for  hours,  I 
turned  in  till  daylight.     But  you — my  dearest  dear " 

He  started  to  his  feet  as  he  realised  her  presence  there, 
and  held  out  both  his  hands  to  her. 

As  he  did  so,  something  dropped  from  them  and  lay 
glittering  on  the  sand  at  his  feet.    It  was  a  gold  coin. 

They  looked  at  each  other,  amazed;  then  she  stooped 
and  picked  it  up. 

"A  double  profile,"  she  said  slowly,  holding  it  so  as 
to  catch  the  growing  sunlight,  ''and  the  legend  round" — 
she  spelt  it  out  from  the  Greek  lettering — "  *  Basileus 
Basileon.'  '* 

"And  the  date,"  he  cried,  "the  date!" 

"Yes,  the  date  is  there,"  she  replied,  still  more  slowly 
turning  to  the  obverse,  "the  bird  and  the  date — it  is  all 
right — but  I  was  thinking  of  the  other " 

"What  other r* 

"Basileus  Basileon — 'the  King  of  Kings,'"  she  said 
softly,  and  looked  out  towards  the  sunrise.  But  the  light 
had  claimed  the  whole  world  and  sent  all  shadows  flying. 

So  happily,  prosaically,  they  went  home  to  breakfast. 
Yet  there  was  one  thing  which  she  never  told  anyone, 
perhaps  because  it  might  have  stood  in  the  way  of  the 
popular  explanation  of  the  whole  affair — namely,  that 
Khesroo  had  happened  on  the  coin  and  must  have  put  it 
in  Jim  Forrester's  hand  after  the  latter  fell  asleep.  So, 
not  even  when  her  father  proudly  pointed  out  to  admirers 
that  the  double  profile  was  that  of  a  man  and  a  woman, 
and  that  the  latter,  curiously  enough,  might  almost  be  a 
portrait  of  his  married  daughter,  did  she  ever  say  that 
when  she  found  her  husband  asleep  in  the  sand  that 
morning,  the  looped  bowstring  of  Khesroo  the  goatherd's 
bow  was  loose  about  his  neck. 

But  she  often  wonders  if  it  would  have  been  drawn 
tighter  had  she  not  gone  to  seek  for  what  she  wanted. 


THE   BIRTH   OF    FIRE 


The  night  was  clear  and  silent. 

The  light-pulse  of  the  stars  as  they  wheeled  with  slow 
certainty  to  meet  the  dawn  was  the  only  visible  movement 
in  the  whole  expanse  of  shadowed  earth  and  sky. 

And  the  only  sound  audible  was  my  own  life  breath 
as  I  sate  beside  the  glowing  embers  of  the  camp  fire. 

Strictly  speaking,  however,  there  was  no  camp,  for  I, 
and  the  two  coolies  who  carried  my  breakfast,  had  missed 
our  way  in  our  detour  through  the  eternal  sameness  of 
faint  curve  and  level  in  the  wide  uplands,  and  finally,  in 
despair  of  rejoining  our  tents,  had  bivouacked  as  best  we 
could  on  the  shore  of  a  small  frozen  lake ;  one  of  those 
obstinate,  rock-bound  pools  which,  even  when  spring  has 
set  seal  of  conquest  on  the  world,  refuse  to  melt,  and  so 
yield  up  their  treasure  of  sweet  water  to  its  renewed  thirst 
for  Life. 

My  servants  had  forced  this  particular  lakelet  to  philan- 
thropy with  rude  blows;  wantonly  rude  it  had  seemed  to 
me,  as  I  watched  the  swift  shiver  with  which  the  stable 
unity  of  surface  had  split  into  forlorn  fragments  of  ice,  each 
adrift  at  the  mercy  of  that  which  they  had  held  prisoner 
for  so  long. 

The  other  necessary  element,  fire,  my  men  had  also 
commandeered  by  a  raid  on  the  low  juniper  which  crept 
like  moss  below  the  taller  grasses  of  the  plain. 

The  result  had  not  been  altogether  satisfactory,  for  the 
pungent  smoke  of  the  aromatic  wood  had — at  leasts  so  the 
sufferers  averred,  though,  at  the  time,  I  suspected  a  recourse 
for  comfort  to  my  whisky-flask — produced  unmistakable 
symptoms  of  intoxication  in  the  amateur  cooks,  who,  after 
valiantly  serving  me  up  a  rechauffe  of  breakfast  had 
succumbed  to  sleep.  The  mattress  of  creeping  jimiper  on 
which  they  lay  like  logs  was  springy  enough  to  have  hidden 
them  from  sight  even  if  the  shadowed  earth  had  not  been 


76  THE   BIRTH   OF  FIRE 

so  dark ;  for  it  was  dark,  formless,  void,  as  only  an  unbroken 
expanse  of  featureless  plain  can  be  when  the  very  sky  grows 
velvet  black  because  of  the  infinitely  distant  brilliance  of 
the  stars.  Indeed,  the  uniformity  of  indefinable  shadow 
was  almost  oppressive,  although  I  knew  right  well  the  scene 
that  lay  around  me ;  for  who  that  has  once  seen  it  can  fail 
of  seeing  again  with  the  mind's  eye  the  marvellous  mosaic 
as  of  white  marble  and  precious  jewels  which  covers  the 
high  upland  stretches  of  the  World's  Roof^  when  the  winter 
snow  retreats  reluctantly,  as  if  loth  to  leave  the  carpeting 
of  spring  flowers  which  follow  on  its  fleeing  footsteps. 

I  even  remembered  as  I  watched  the  embers  that  just 
behind  them,  finding  faint  shelter  from  a  solitary  boulder, 
there  grew  a  tiny  azalea  I  had  never  seen  before ;  a  fragile, 
leafless  thing  set  sparsely  with  sweet-scented  flowers  that 
were  flecked  rose  on  saffron  like  a  sunset  sky. 

And  the  silence  was  oppressive  also.  I  caught  myself 
listening — listening  almost  breathlessly — for  a  sound — for 
some  sound  !  But  there  was  not  even  a  whisper  among 
the  tall  grasses. 

In  sudden  impulse  I  threw  a  fresh  juniper  branch  upon 
the  embers,  and  the  silence,  the  stillness  ended  as  if  by 
magic;  for  the  green  spines  spat  and  sputtered  as  they 
shrivelled,  and  sent  out  a  dense  cloud  of  smoke  to  circle 
up  endlessly  into  the  darkness. 

A  pungent  smoke  indeed !  Involuntarily  I  drew  back 
from  it  and  covered  my  eyes  with  my  hand  waiting  until 
the  smouldering  should  lighten  into  flame. 

The  waiting,  however,  prolonged  itself  strangely.  No 
flicker  of  light  reached  me,  and  I  began  to  wonder  dreamily 
what  had  happened ;  so  dreamily,  indeed,  that  when  at 
last  I  looked  up,  I  did  so  reluctantly,  and  with  a  curious 
sense  of  confusion. 

It  was  this,  no  doubt,  which  prevented  surprise  at 
finding  that  I  was  no  longer  the  solitary  watcher  of  those 
dull  embers. 

Opposite  me,  nearly  hidden  in  the  endless  curlings  of 
the  juniper  smoke  was  a  man  crouching  towards  the  fire 
as  if  he  felt  the  cold  of  the  high  uplands.  Only  his  face, 
and  the  hands  he  held  towards  the  heat,  showed  clearly; 


THE   BIRTH   OF   FIRE  77 

the  rest  was  lost  in  billowy  clouds  which,  drifting  upwards 
behind  him,  obscured  the  very  stars. 

I  sate  silent  for  a  while,  disinclined  even  for  curiosity, 
and  then,  rather  to  my  own  surprise,  I  spoke  as  I  might 
have  spoken  to  a  familiar  friend. 
"You  are  cold,  I'm  afraid." 

To  this  day,  I  do  not  know  in  what  language  he  replied — 
if,  indeed  1  he  spoke  at  all.  My  only  recollection  is  of  the 
eloquence  of  liquid,  lustrous  eyes,  the  confident  certainty 
of  comprehension  which  is  the  child's  ere  it  can  speak 
articulately. 

**I  am  a  Star-gazer;  so  the  Fire  draws  me." 
"Why?" 

"Why?  Surely  all  know  it  is  the  Star  Fire  which  fell 
when  She  first  came  to  me — Hai-me !  Hai-me !  When 
She  first  came  and  laid  her  hand  in  mine." 

The  drifting  billows  parted,  showing  the  stars  above 
his  head,  then  closed  again,  blotting  them  out;  blotting 
out  all  things,  it  seemed  to  me,  even  my  own  self  as  I 
sale  listening  to  the  faint  wail  which  rose  vaguely,  filling 
the  wide  shadows. 

"lo!  lo !  Disturber  of  dreams,  why  didst  thou  comet 
lo  !  lo  !  Bringer  of  dreams,  why  didst  gol  Lk)  !  the  Star 
fire  was  not  thine  though  thou  camest  with  the  Fire  of 
the  Star." 

Through  the  pungent  aroma  of  the  burning  branches, 
a  faint  breath  of  perfume  from  the  sunset-dyed  azalea 
swept,  mingling  with  it,  and  so  passing  with  it  into  the 
endless  circling. 

The  lustrous  eyes  drooped,  losing  their  brilliance;  but 
when  they  looked  up  again  only  serene  confident  compre- 
hension was  there. 

"In  forest  days  none  of  us  were  Star-gazers,  for  there 
was  no  Rim  to  the  world  on  which  the  following  Footsteps 
could  be  seen.  But  when  we  left  the  forest  for  the  upland, 
with  its  milch  kine  and  seed  grains,  we  learnt  to  look ;  for 
there  was  the  Rim.  And  all  things  went  to  stand  on  it 
and  disappear  among  the  Stars. 

"  So,  gazing,  we  saw  that  the  Stars  disappeared  also ; 
they,  too,  were  following  the  Footsteps.    But  they  never 


78  THE   BIRTH   OF   FIRE 

came  back  as  they  went,  like  other  things.  Their  footsteps 
were  faithful;  so  faithful  that  you  could  foretell  by  them 
the  ripening  of  the  seed  grains,  the  coming  of  milk  to  the 
herds. 

"  So  gazing,  we  wondered.  Here  by  this  pool  I  watched, 
taking  no  need  of  harvest  or  milk  time ;  but  I  saw  nothing 
but  the  following  Footsteps  and  the  footsteps  of  the  Stars. 

"Nothing,  though  I  followed  with  mine  eyes,  wheeling 
a,s  the  Stars  wheeled  to  meet  the  dawn  while  the  shadows 
and  my  kind,  and  all  other  things,  slept  as  they  do  now." 

They  slept,  indeed !  The  very  smoke  had  ceased  to 
circle.  It  hung  in  motionless  curves,  soft,  impenetrable, 
and  I  could  see  nothing  now  save  the  lustrous  eyes,  and 
the  dull  glow  of  the  fire. 

"  So  I  gazed,  until  one  night,  as  I  stood  following  the 
footsteps  of  the  faithful  Stars  with  mine  eyes,  the  know- 
ledge came  to  me,  that  as  I  stood  watching  them,  so 
Someone  stood  watching  me  and  all  things.  Someone 
who  did  not  move.     And  I  was  glad,  though  I  was  afraid. 

"  But  that  dawn,  when  I  went  down  after  our  custom 
to  gather  the  seed  grains  with  my  kind,  they  looked  at 
me  askance  as  if  I  were  a  stranger.  Only  lo,  she  of  the 
beautiful  young  one  that  all  cherished,  paused  as  she 
suckled  it  to  follow  me  with  curious  wondering  eyes." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  through  it  came,  soft  as  a  sigh, 
that  faint  wail: 

'^lo!  lo  !  Disturber  of  Dreams,  why  didst  come?  lo  ! 
lo  !    Bringer  of  Dreams,  why  didst  thou  go"?  " 

*'It  was  cold  here,  on  the  uplands,  gazing;  but  the 
faithful  Stars  shone  quite  near  me.  It  seemed  as  if  I 
could  reach  up  and  clasp  them.  And  I  was  faithful  as  they 
in  the  Footsteps;  for  I  have  driven  a  stake  of  wood  into 
the  ground  firm  as  the  ground  itself,  and  night  after  night, 
as  I  watched  the  Stars  wheel,  I  twirled  the  slender  wand 
I  held  in  my  hands  upon  it,  following  their  faithful  Foot- 
steps so  that  the  Someone  who  watched  might  see  me 
even  as  they  were ! 

"And  I  was  happy,  though  I  was  afraid. 

"  But  one  night,  when  the  tall  grasses  were  stiff  and 
the  low  green  things  were  white  with  the  cold,  my  fingers 


THE     BIRTH    OF     FIRE  79 

could  scarce  twirl  the  wand,  and  the  fear  lest  the  Someone 
might  grow  angry  with  me  came  so  strong  that  suddenly 
I  lifted  my  head  and  cried  to  It  to  be  kind. 

''How  the  stars  shone!  My  hands  longed  to  leave 
the  wand  and  reach  them,  and  in  me  there  rose  a  great 
new  joy,  as  if  I  had  found  myself. 

''  But  that  Dawn,  when  I  went  after  the  custom  to  gather 
the  grain  with  my  kind,  they  fled  from  me  as  if  I  had  been 
an  enemy. 

"Only  lo,  she  of  the  beautiful  young  one,  with  her 
breasts  full  of  milk,  left  the  cherished  one  athirst  to  follow 
my  footsteps  and  hold  out  a  handful  of  the  grain  she  had 
gathered  for  herself. 

''  But  I  feared  her  and  she  feared  me,  so  she  left  it  lying 
on  the  ground,  and  afterwards  I  went  and  ate  it,  for  I 
was  hungry.  But  the  touch  of  her  hand  that  was  on  the 
grain  touched  my  lips  so  that  I  felt  it  even  as  I  gazed. 

*'Io!  lo  !  Disturber  of  Dreams,  why  didst  comel  lo  ! 
lo !  Why  didst  thou  go  ?  The  Star  fire  was  not  thine, 
though  thou  wast  in  the  fire  of  the  Star ! " 

Even  the  lustrous  eyes  were  hidden  from  me  now^  I 
saw  nothing  but  the  fading  glow  of  the  embers  as  I  sate 
listening  amid  the  uttermost  peace  of  aU  things  to  that 
soft  almost  voiceless  wail. 

"  The  nights  grew  hot,  and  the  tall  grasses  crackled  in 
the  drought,  and  the  low  green  things  wilted  to  greyness. 
But  I  cared  not,  for  I  had  found  myself,  and  I  knew  there 
was  a  Beginning  and  an  End.  And  even  that  touch  on 
my  lips  did  not  disturb  my  dreams  as,  faithful  as  they,  I 
followed  the  faithful  footsteps  of  the  Stars. 

''Until  one  night— it  w^as  so  hot  that  something  in  me 
seemed  to  out-beat  the  beating  of  the  Stars — a  great  Dark- 
ness that  was  not  Night  came  from  the  Rim  and  swallowed 
up  all  things. 

"  I  had  seen  it  come  before  and  had  hidden  my  face  from 
it  like  the  rest  of  my  kin,  but  now  my  fear  was  too  strong 
for  hiding.  Besides,  who  could  hide  when  Someone  watched 
always?  And  why  should  I  hide  if  I  were  faithful— if  I 
were  as  the  Stars'? 

"  Thus  a  great  joy  mingled  with  my  fear,  until  something 


80  THE   BIRTH   OF   FIRE 

in  me  cried  out  with  a  great  longing  for  something  that 
was  not  in  me,  and  something  that  I  had  not,  seemed  to 
come  to  me  until  my  wand  tv/irled  faster,  as  if  other  hands 
were  on  it,  and  my  lips,  as  I  cried  out  that  I  was  faithful, 
felt  the  touch  of  other  lips  upon  them. 

''  So  through  the  Darkness  that  hid  the  Stars  while  the 
hot  wind  howled  about  me  and  flung  hot  earth  grains  in 
my  face,  I  shouted  to  the  Stars  to  come  down  to  me." 

The  very  fire  had  gone  now,  and  I  strained  my  eyes 
into  the  shadows,  seeing  nothing  but  endless  curves  as 
of  smoke. 

"  And  lo  !    One  came  ! 

"Just  where  the  wand  whirled  by  my  hot  hasty  hands 
touched  the  steady  stake  of  wood  I  saw  a  tiny  star. 

"But,  as  I  saw  it,  something  came  to  me  also,  making 
me  forget  the  Star ! 

"Itwaslo! 

"  She  had  left  her  cherished  one ;  with  her  breasts  full 
of  milk,  she  had  left  the  little  drinker  athirst;  she  had 
followed  my  footsteps  through  the  darkness  to  find  me 
and  lay  her  hand  in  mine. 

"lo!  lo!  Bringer  of  Dreams !  lo !  lo !  Disturber  of 
Dreams,  thou  didst  come  ! 

"And  the  touch  of  our  hands  and  our  lips  together  made 
us  forget  the  starshine  which  had  come  with  it. 

"  But  the  shine  grew  and  grew,  so  that  when  we  looked 
again  it  was  not  a  Star  at  all,  but  something  new  and 
strange.  Something  that  crept  among  the  dry  grasses  and 
the  wilted  green  things,  something  that  leaped  and  laughed 
amid  the  darkness,  something  that  sent  hot  arms  towards 
us,  till  I  caught  her  in  mine  and  fled  from  it,  leaving  the 
wand  and  the  steady  stake  behind. 

"  So  we  fled  and  fled,  with  the  Fire  which  came  from 
the  Starshine  behind  us  always.  Fled  in  the  faithful  foot- 
steps of  the  Stars.  .  .  .    Fled  to  find  the  Dawn !  .  .  ." 


There  was  silence ;  a  long  silence !    And  was  that  the 
Dawn,  the  gracious  Dawnl 


THE    BIRTH    OF    FIRE  81 

Something,  surely,  all  rose  flecked  on  saffron  and 
suffused  with  Light  lay  before  my  upturned  eyes. 

It  was  an  azalea  blossom.  But,  as  I  rose  to  my  feet 
from  the  springy  juniper  where  I  had  been  lying,  my  head 
sheltered  by  the  straggling  branches  of  the  leafless  bush, 
the  dawn  had  come,  indeed,  on  the  far  rim  of  the  wide 
plain. 

And  between  it  and  me,  rising  from  the  retreating  snow 
and  the  carpeting  of  spring  flowers,  was  a  white  vapour 
which,  lit  by  the  rosy  sun  rays  behind  it,  showed  like  smoke 
from  a  prairie  fire. 

But  our  fire  was  out.  Only  a  heap  of  grey  ashes 
remained,  though  the  sleep  which  had  come  from  the 
juniper  branches  still  held  the  sleeping  servants. 

It  needed  a  rough  awakening,  as  rough  as  that  which 
had  left  the  prisoning  ice  at  the  mercy  of  the  prisoned 
water,  to  rouse  them  and  make  them  stand  yawning, 
stretching  in  the  dawn,  avowing  that  haschish  itself  could 
not  bring  wilder  dreams  than  those  which  had  been  theirs 
that  night.  But  was  it  a  dream?  or  does  the  man,  hand- 
in-hand  with  the  woman,  still  fly  from  the  Fire  which  came 
from  the  Star-shine  ? 


THE  GIFT  OF  BATTLE 


T  2 


''  Then  you  recommend  them  both,"  said  the  mild  little 
Commissioner,  doubtfully ;  he  was  a  vacillating  man,  by 
nature  lawful  prey  to  his  superiors. 

Tim  O'Brien,  CLE. — the  uncoveted  distinction  had 
been,  to  his  great  disgust,  bestowed  on  him  after  a  recent 
famine,  in  which  his  sheer  vitality  had  saved  half  a 
province,  and  earned  him,  rightfully,  the  highest  honour 
of  the  empire — removed  his  long  Burmah  cheroot  from  his 
lips  and  smiled  brilliantly.  He  was  a  thin  brown  man  with 
a  whimsical  face. 

**And  what  would  I  be  doing  with  wan  of  them  on  the 
Bench  and  the  other  in  the  dock?  For  it  would  be  that 
way  ere  a  week  was  past.  It  is  very  kind  of  the  L.G. 
to  suggest  putting  either  Sirdar  Bikrama  Singh  or  Khan 
Buktiyar  Khan  on  the  Honorary  Magistracy,  but  he 
doesn't  grasp  that  they  are  hereditary  enemies  and  have 
been  the  same  for  eight  hundred  years.  Ever  since  the 
Pathans  temporarily  conquered  the  Rajputs,  in  the  year 
av'  grace  1256 !  So  you  couldn't  in  conscience  expect  wan 
of  them  not  to  commit  a  crime  if  the  other  was  to  be 
preferred  before  him.  Ye  see,  he'd  just  have  to  kill 
someone.  But,  if  ye  appoint  them  both,  the  dacencies  of 
Court  procedure  and  the  hair-splittin'  formalities  of  the 
local  Bar  will  conduce  to  dignity— to  say  nothing  of  their 
own  sense  of  justice,  which,  I'll  go  bail,  is  stronger  than 
it  is  in  most  people  ye  could  appoint.  Equity's  apt  to  go 
by  the  board  if  ye've  too  much  legal  knowledge ;  and  they 
have  none  of  that  last.  But  I'll  give  them  a  good  Clerk 
of  the  Court  and  guarantee  they  come  to  no  harrm.  Yes, 
sir,  I  recommend  them  both — to  sit  in  hanco.^^ 

When  Tim  O'Brien  spoke,  as  he  did  in  the  last  sentence, 
curtly  and  without  a  trace  of  his  usual  rollicking  Irish 
accent,  his  superior  officers  invariably  fell  in  with  his  views ; 
it  saved  trouble. 


88  THE   GIFT   OF   BATTLE 

So,  ia  due  course,  what  answers  to  a  J. P. '8  commission 
at  home  (with  no  small  extra  povv^ers  thrown  in)  was  sent 
to  Sirdar  Bikrama  Singh,  Rajput  at  his  castle  of  Nagadnig 
(the  Snake's  Hole),  and  also  to  Khan  Buktiyar  Khan  at  his 
fortress  of  Shakingarh  (the  Falcon's  Nest). 

Both  buildings  had  been  for  some  centuries  in  a  hopeless 
state  of  dilapidation,  as,  from  a  worldly  point  of  view,  were 
their  owners'  fortunes.  But,  just  as  the  crumbling  walls 
still  commanded  the  wide  arid  valley  which  lay  between 
the  rocky  steeps  of  the  sandhills  on  which  they  stood,  so 
the  position  of  the  two  most  ancient  families  of  Hindus 
and  Mahomedans  in  the  district  still  commanded  the 
respect  of  the  whole  sub-division.  Of  course,  they  were 
antagonistic.  Had  they  not  been  so  always?  But,  in 
truth,  the  old  story  of  how  they  came  to  be  so  was  such 
a  very  old  story,  that  none  knew  the  rights  of  it :  not  even 
the  two  high-nosed,  high-couraged  old  men,  who,  having 
in  due  time  succeeded  to  the  headship  of  their  respective 
families,  had  done  as  their  fathers  had  done;  that  is  to 
say,  glared  at  each  other  over  their  barren  fields, 
formulated  every  possible  complaint  they  could  against 
their  neighbour,  and  denied  any  good  quality  to  him,  his 
house,  his  wife,  his  oxen,  or  his  ass. 

Yet  the  two  had  one  thing  in  common.  They  were  both 
soldiers  by  race.  Their  sons  were  even  now  with  the 
colours  of  Empire,  and  in  their  own  youth  both  had  served 
John  Company,  and  afterwards,  the  Queen.  This  bond, 
however,  was  not  one  of  union,  but  rather  of  discord.  For 
the  one  had  belonged  to  the  crack  Hindu  and  the  other 
to  the  crack  Mahomedan  corps  of  the  Indian  army,  and 
their  respective  sons  naturally  followed  in  their  fathers' 
footsteps.  Indeed,  on  occasions  the  pair  of  dear  old 
pantaloons  would  appear  in  the  uniforms  of  a  past  day, 
hopelessly  out  of  date  as  regards  buttons  and  tailoring, 
but  still  worn  with  the  distinctive  cock  of  the  turban  and 
swagger  of  high  boots  that  had  belonged  of  old  days  and 
still  belonged  to  the  "rigimint," 

Bikrama  Singh  was  seated  on  the  flat  roof  which  had 
sheltered  him  and  his  for  centuries  when  he  received  the 
little  slip  of  silk  paper,   so  beautifully  engrossed,  which 


THE   GIFT   OF   BATTLE  87 

appointed  him  to  the  Honorary  Magistracy.  It  was  a 
barren  honour,  since  he  was  not  one  of  those — and  there 
are  many — ^^^ho  make  a  stipend  out  of  an  unpaid  post; 
but  his  thin  old  fingers  trembled  a  little  and  his  eye  lost 
the  faintly  blue  film  which  age  draws  between  the  Real 
and  the  Unreal.  Whether  his  mind  reverted  at  once  to  his 
hereditary  enemy — who  was  not  mentioned  in  the  paper — 
is  doubtful,  but  he  felt  it  to  be  an  honour  in  these 
miserable  days,  when  a  moneylender  had  more  chance  of 
being  elected  to  a  district  council  than  a  gentleman  of 
parts  to  be  chosen  by  the  Sirkar.  It  was  a  thousand 
times  better  than  being  ''puffed  by  rabble  votes  to 
wisdom's  chair." 

"It  is  well,"  he  said  simply,  but  with  a  superior  air,  to 
his  womenfolk— the  wife  and  daughters  and  grand-daughters 
and  daughters-in-law  and  their  kind  who  filled  up  the  wide 
old  house.  ''I  shall  do  my  duty  and  punish  the  evil  doer; 
notably  those  who  do  evil  to  my  people  and  my  land,  since 
true  justice  begins  at  home."  And  he  curled  his  thin 
grey  moustache  to  meet  his  short  grey  whiskers  and  looked 
fierce  as  an  old  tiger. 

Over  in  Shakingarh  also  the  commission  met  with 
approval.  "It  is  well!"  said  Buktiyar  Khan,  as  he  sate 
amongst  his  crowding  womenfolk  with  a  poultice  of  leaves 
on  his  short  beard  to  dye  it  purple.  "I  shall  do  my  duty 
and  punish  the  evil  doer;  notably  him  who  has  done  evil 
to  my  people  and  my  land,  since  that  is  the  beginning  of 
justice."  And  his  hawk's  eye  travelled  almost  uncon- 
sciously from  his  flat  roof  to  that  other  one  far  over  the 
valley. 

Yet,  when  they  met,  a  few  days  afterwards,  duly  attired 
in  their  uniforms  on  the  threshold  of  Brine  sahib's  verandah, 
whither  they  had  repaired  full  of  courteous  acknowledg- 
ments to  one  whom  they  recognised  as  being  at  the  bottom 
of  the  appointment,  a  faint  frown  came  to  their  old  faces. 
But  Brine  sahih  broke  it  to  them  gently,  with  the  graceful 
tact  which  gained  him  so  much  confidence.  Government, 
recognising  their  many  and  great  excellencies,  had  found 
it  impossible  to  do  otherwise  than  elevate  them  both  to 
the  Bench,  where  they  would  doubtless  remain,  as  they 


88  THE   GIFT   OF   BATTLE 

were  now,  the  best  representatives  of  Hindu  and 
Mahomedan  feeling  in  the  district.  And  then  Tim  O'Brien 
made  a  few  remarks  about  the  King-Emperor  and  devoted 
service  which  sent  both  old  hands  out  in  swift  stiff  salute. 

Doubtless  it  was  a  shock  to  find  themselves  equally 
honoured;  but  regarding  the  "m  banco,"  they  both 
admitted  instantly  to  themselves  that  it  was  better  to  sit 
next  a  hereditary  enemy  than  a  stinking  scrivener  or  a 
mean  moneylender.  So  Bikrama  Singh  twirled  his  grey 
moustache  and  said,  *'It  is  well,"  and  Buktiyar  Khdn 
twirled  his  purple  one  and  said  the  same  thing. 

Thereinafter  they  began  work.  The  women  of  both 
houses  made  the  first  court  day  a  regular  festival,  and  sent 
the  two  old  men  from  home  dressed  and  scented  and 
decorated  as  if  for  a  bridal.  The  purple  of  Buktiyar's  beard 
was  positively  regal,  while  the  points  of  Bikrama's  thin 
trembling  fingers  were  rosy  as  the  dawn. 

They  were  fearsomely  stately  with  each  other,  of  course, 
but  that  only  added  to  the  dignity  of  the  Bench.  An 
excellent  Clerk  of  the  Court  had  been  provided  for  them, 
and  their  first  cases  had  been  carefully  chosen  by  Tim 
O'Brien  for  their  simplicity. 

Thus  there  had  seemed  no  possibility  of  friction;  yet 
the  two  new  judges  returned  to  their  womenkind  vaguely 
dissatisfied,  dimly  uneasy. 

"The  Mahomedan  is  no  fool,"  remarked  Bikrama  Singh 
thoughtfully,  *'he  saw  as  quickly  as  I  did  that  truth  lay 
with  the  defendant,  lies  with  the  plaintiff." 

"By  God's  truth,"  admitted  Buktiyar  Khan  grudgingly, 
"the  Hindu  is  not  such  a  blockhead  as  I  deemed  him.  He 
saw  as  quickly  as  I  did  that  lies  were  with  the  plaintiff, 
truth  with  the  defendant." 

It  was  almost  intolerable ;  but  it  was  true.  The 
hereditary  enemies  had  agreed  about  something  on  God's 
earth.  And  as  time  went  on  this  unanimity  of  opinion 
became  the  most  salient  feature  of  the  newly-constituted 
court.  They  agreed  about  everything.  Of  different  race, 
different  religion,  something  deeper  in  them  than  these 
surface  variations  coincided.  Their  innate  sense  of  justice, 
fostered  by  the  fact  that  they  had  both  been  brought  up 


THE   GIFT   OF   BATTLE  89 

in  the  India  of  the  past,  that  they  represented  its  laws,  its 
morals,  its  maxims,  made  their  judgments  identical. 

"  We  waste  time,  bahu-jee,''  broke  in  old  Bikrama  Singh 
on  the  lengthy  peroration  of  a  newly  passed  pleader,  eager 
to  air  his  eloquence.  "  Words  are  idle  when  facts  stare 
you  in  the  face.  '  Who  knows  is  silent,  he  who  talks  knows 
not,'  as  the  proverb  hath  it.  That  is  enough.  We  are 
satisfied."  "  Wdh  TFd/i,"  assented  Buktiyar  Khan  at  once, 
acquiescent  and  regretful.  ''  Truly,  pleader-jee  1  thou  hast 
said  that  before.  Why  say  it  again?  If  sugar  kills,  why 
try  poison?    We  are  satisfied,  so  that  is  enough." 

It  was  more  than  enough  for  the  local  Bar.  They  went 
in  a  body  to  Tim  O'Brien  and  complained  that  they  were 
not  treated  as  lawyers  should  be  treated. 

As  usual.  Brine  sahib  met  them  with  sympathy;  but 
it  was  the  sympathy  of  inaction. 

*'I  sincerely  regret,  gentlemen,"  he  said  softly,  ''that 
sufficient  toime  is  not  allowed  you  to  get  all  the  words 
you  have  at  command  off  your  stomachs — I  beg  pardon, 
your  minds.  But,  ye  see,  the  judgments  of  the  Bench  are 
imfortunately  quite  sound;  they'd  be  watertight  against 
the  full  forensic  flood  of  the  whole  High  Court  Bar.  So  I 
don't  see  what  the  divvle  is  to  be  done — do  you? " 

They  did  not.  In  sober  truth  the  sense  of  equity  in  the 
hereditary  enemies  was  too  strong  for  the  lawyers.  The 
old  men  were  honestly  fulfilled  with  the  desire  of  punishing 
the  evil  doer  and  praising  those  who  did  well.  Such 
flimsy  overlays  as  race  and  tribe  and  caste  and  family 
and  creed  did  not  touch  their  agreement  on  all  things 
necessary  to  salvation. 

The  fact  was  rather  a  pain  and  grief  to  them.  It  did 
not  make  them  treat  each  other  with  less  stately  dignity 
or  cause  them  to  be  one  whit  more  friendly  out  of  court. 

Sirdar  Bikrama  Singh  went  home  to  his  womenfolk 
and  railed  as  ever  against  his  neighbour,  and  Khan 
Buktiyar  Khan,  as  he  rolled  his  little  opium  pill  betwixt 
finger  and  thumb,  would  do  the  same  thing.  But  in  their 
heart  of  hearts  they  knew  that,  since  a  judge  must  always 
be  "  an  ignorant  man  between  two  wise  ones  "  (the  plaintiff 


90  THE   GIFT   OF   BATTLE 

and  defendant),  it  must  be  some  common  ground  in  them- 
selves which  made  their  views  coincide. 

Meanwhile  the  fame  of  the  collective  wisdom  grew 
amongst  the  litigants,  and  indignation  at  its  brevity- 
increased  amongst  the  lawyers.  Tim  O'Brien,  however^ 
when  the  timid  little  Commissioner  showed  him  a 
numerously  signed  petition  from  the  local  Bar  protesting 
against  the  "strictly  non-regulation  curtailment  of 
eloquence,"  only  smiled  suavely.  **They  get  at  the  rights 
of  a  case  by  congenital  intuition,  sir.  The  High  Court 
have  upheld  their  judgments  in  the  few  appeals  the  pleaders 

have  cared  to  make;  so  I  don't  see  what  the  div I 

mean,  sir,  I  don't  see  what  is  to  be  done — do  you? " 

Once  again  there  was  no  answer,  and  Tim  O'Brien,  as 
he  dashed  off  here  and  there  to  institute  enquiries  in 
obedience  to  the  cipher  telegrams  which  came  pouring  in 
from  Calcutta  by  day  and  by  night,  felt  comfort  in  knowing 
that  one  sub-division  of  his  district  at  any  rate  was  being 
well  administered. 

For  they  were  troublous  days  for  officers  in  charge. 
Someone  somewhere  had  been  unwise  enough  to  take  the 
thumb-marks  of  a  peripatetic  preacher  who  was  suspect-ed 
of  being  an  anarchist.  He  was  proved  to  be  an  apostle  of 
unrest;  he  was  also  unfortunately  a  man  not  only  of  thumb- 
mark,  but  of  mark.  A  professor,  briefly,  in  some  far-away 
college.  So  the  official  who  had  ordered  the  indignity  in 
the  interests  of  public  order  was  degraded ;  and  thereinafter, 
naturally,  began  a  campaign  of  would-be  terrorism  amongst 
the  schoolboys  and  students  of  the  province  which  shattered 
the  nerves  of  government. 

*'By  the  Lord  who  made  me,"  ejaculated  Tim  O'Brien 
angrily,  as  he  flung  aside  the  last  urgent  communiquee  from 
headquarters,  ''one  would  think  from  that  bosh,  we  were 
in  danger  of  losing  India  to-morrow.  Can't  they  see  it's 
only  schoolboy  rot,  sheer  daredevil  schoolboy  mischief,  like 
throwing  caps  under  a  motor  car  and  heads  you  win  tails 
I  lose,  you're  over  last.  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is.  Smith," 
— here  he  addressed  his  assistant,  a  pale-faced  boy  not  yet 
recovered  from  the  strain  of  examinations — ''  if  I  was  worth 
my  salt  and  had  the  courage  of  my  opinions,  I'd  have  up 


THE   GIFT   OF   BATTLE  91 

those  boya'  masters  and  give  'em  each  thirty  with  the  cane 
for  not  keeping  their  pupils  in  order.  That  'ud  stop  it. 
Instead  of  that,  I  have  to  arrest  a  poor  child  of  thirteen 
who  threw  a  badly  made  bomb,  as  harmless — it  turned 
out — as  a  squib.  However !  my  pension  stares  me  in  the 
face.  There  isn't  even  a  House  of  Lords  left  to  which  I 
could  appeal.  So  here  goes  for  the  innocent  victim  av' 
education!    Lispector !  arrange  the  arrest,  please!" 

Naturally,  of  course,  as  Tim  O'Brien  had  known,  every 
other  schoolboy  in  the  district  marched  about  singing 
patriotic  songs  and  doing  wanton  mischief  to  their  hearts' 
content;  thus  there  was  quite  a  crop  of  minor  arrests. 

In  fact,  when  the  Bench  of  Hereditary  Enemies  held  its 
next  sitting  it  was  confronted  with  a  lengthy  police  case 
against  a  gang  of  boys  whose  ages  varied  from  ten  to 
thirteen. 

Bikrama  Singh  listened  gravely  to  the  details  and  twirled 
his  grey  moustache.  Buktiyar  Khan  also  listened  gravely 
and  stroked  his  purple  beard.  They  listened  very  patiently, 
yet  a  vague  impatience  came  to  their  old  faces.  Then  they 
looked  in  each  other's  eyes,  and  at  last  the  wisdom  of  their 
hearts  found  speech. 

**  Where  is  the  teacher  of  these  children?  Bring  him 
hither  that  he  may  show  cause  for  himself." 

To  be  brief.  That  night  the  head  master  of  the  sub- 
divisional  school  could  neither  sit  down  nor  stand  up  com- 
fortably. But  the  streets  were  quiet;  the  boys  peacefully 
in  their  beds. 

"Glory  be  to  them,"  cried  Tim  O'Brien  exultantly, 
when  the  news  was  brought  to  him.  "  They've  more  spunk 
than  I  have — so  now  to  get  them  out  of  the  scrape." 

He  did  his  best,  and  that  was  a  good  deal,  but  the  law 
and  lies  were  against  him.  The  schoolmaster  happened 
to  be  somebody's  nephew  by  marriage,  and  though  there 
was  ample  evidence  to  prove  that  he  had  misused  his 
position  as  a  Government  servant,  the  utmost  favour  Tim 
O'Brien  could  screw  out  of  the  Powers  was  permission  for 
the  offenders  to  retire  instead  of  being  dismissed  from  the 
Honorary  Magistracy. 

He  broke  this   to   the   old   men   with   his  usual   tact, 


92  THE   GIFT    OF   BATTLE 

applauding  them  between  the  lines  for  their  courage.  To 
his  surprise  and  relief  they  accepted  the  position  calmly. 
The  better  the  subordinate,  they  said,  the  less  likely  he 
was  to  be  always  in  agreement  with  others.  During  their 
three  years'  work,  which,  in  truth,  had  been  laborious,  not 
one  of  their  decisions  had  been  upset  on  appeal.  How 
many  judges  could  say  the  same  !    And  as  for  head  master- 

jee ?     Would    Brine   sahiby    if    he    could,    remove   those 

thirty  stripes  from  the  miscreant's  back.  *'Ye  have  me 
there,  sahihan,"  Tim  O'Brien  replied,  with  conviction,  '*I 
would  not;  an'  that's  God's  truth." 

So  the  old  men  sent  in  their  resignations,  not  altogether 
regretfully.  For  one  thing,  the  unanimity  of  their  opinions 
had  been  disturbing;  the  old  antagonism  seemed  more 
natural.  And  there  the  matter  should  have  ended.  Un- 
fortunately for  all,  it  did  not.  To  be  brief.  Tim  O'Brien 
was  asked  one  day,  as  District  Ofl&cer,  to  sign  a  warrant 
for  the  arrest  of  Sirdar  Bikrama  Singh  and  Khan  Buktiyar 
Khan  on  a  charge  of  assault  and  battery  against  the  head 
master-jce,  who  turned  out  to  be  sib  to  half  the  local  Bar. 

There  is  no  reason  to  go  into  the  legal  points  of  the 
incident,  or  to  tell  of  the  vain  efforts  of  Tim  O'Brien  to 
save  the  whilom  Bench  from  this  last  affront.  An  epidemic 
of  cases  against  magistrates  had  set  m,  and  late  one 
evening  the  District  Officer  started  to  ride  over  and  break 
the  news  of  the  coming  arrest  to  the  Hereditary  Enemies. 

Nagadrug  stood  on  the  nearest  scarp  of  sand,  so  he  went 
there  first.  He  found  the  old  Sirdar,  looking  rather  frail, 
engaged  as  usual  in  glaring  out  over  the  arid  fields  to 
Shakingarh. 

But  this  time  all  Tim  O'Brien's  tact  did  not  avail  for 
calm.  Incredulous  anger,  half  dazed  indignation,  took  its 
place.  It  could  not  be  true.  What !  was  he,  Rajput  of 
Rajput,  to  be  dragged  to  court  at  the  bidding  of  a  miserable 
hound  whom  he  had  whipped,  and  rightly  whipped  1  Had 
not  Brine  sahib  himself  applauded  the  act  ?  Had  they  not 
done  right  1 — the  plural  pronoun  came  out  naturally.  Was 
not  a  false  guree  God's  basest  creature  1  Did  not  the  law 
say  so :  "  He  who  teaches  false  teaching,  who  kills  his  own 
soul  and  another,  let  him  die."     Why  had  they  not  given 


THE   GIFT    OF   BATTLE  93 

the  vile  reptile  an  hundred  stripes  and  so  got  rid  of  him 
altogether. 

And  now  were  they  to  have  a  degree  (decree)  against 
them?  Shinjee  !  It  should  never  be^  nerer!  never!  They 
would  not  have  it !  The  old  tongue  found  no  difficulty  in 
thus  claiming  companionship  in  revolt,  the  old  heart  knew 
it  was  certain  of  sympathy  in  the  ancient  enmity. 

Utterly  sickened  at  a  tragedy  he  could  not  prevent,  the 
District  Officer  went,  tactfully  as  ever,  to  Shakingarh ;  only 
to  meet  with  even  deeper  indignation.  Innocent  though 
he  knew  himself  to  be,  the  Englishman  positively  writhed 
under  the  contemptuous  unsparing  scorn  of  the  old  Pathan. 
What!  was  the  Sirkar  not  strong  enough  to  protect  itself? 
Then  let  it  pack  up  its  bundle  and  get  out  of  Hindustan. 
Let  it  leave  India  and  its  problems  to  his  people — those 
northern  folk  who  had  harried  Bengal  in  the  past,  who, 
God  willing,  would  harry  it  again.  Had  Brine  sahib  not 
heard  the  saying:  "He  who  uses  his  public  office  to  betray 
the  State  commits  a  crime  against  himself,  his  country, 
and  his  God."  And  had  not  the  base  hound  betrayed  the 
State  ?  A  thousand  times,  yes  !  it  was  a  pity  they  had 
not  flogged  him  to  death. 

The  moon  rose  over  the  low  sandhills  before  the  District 
Officer,  bruised  and  broken  by  the  verdict  of  past  India  on 
the  present,  rode  back  to  the  sessions  bungalow,  where  he 
meant  to  pass  the  night.  For  with  the  dawn  he  would  go 
up  with  the  police  officer  and  so  soften  the  arrest  of  the 
Hereditary  Enemies  so  far  as  it  could  be  softened. 

They  would  be  let  out  on  bail,  of  course,  and,  at  the 
worst,  a  fine  more  or  less  heavy  would  see  them  through. 
It  was  not  so  bad — not  so  very  bad. 

The  District  Officer  tried  to  comfort  himself  with  such 
reflections;  in  his  heart  he  knew  they  were  futile;  that 
nothing  would  soften  the  degradation  to  those  two  old 
warriors. 

Nothing !  unless  it  was  the  calm  moonlight  that  lay  over 
the  arid  valley  and  turned  the  round  old  fortresses  to  dim 
mysterious  palaces  of  light. 

Perhaps  the  peace  of  it  sank  into  the  wearied  hot  old 
eyes  that  looked  out  from  the  ancestral  roofs  with  a  new 


94  THE  GIFT   OF   BATTLE 

feeling  of  comradesiiip,  each  for  each,  dulling  the  here- 
ditary hatred,  yet  bringing  with  it  old  memories,  old  tales 
of  past  enmity. 

''  Bring  me  my  uniform,  women ! "  said  Bikrama  Singh, 
suddenly.  Half  a  dozen  weeping  daughters  and  daughters- 
in-law  and  an  old  wife  too  blind  to  see  did  as  they  were 
bid,  and  in  a  short  time  the  old  man  stood  arrayed  as 
for  a  bridal,  his  sword  buckled  tight  to  his  bowed  back. 
''And  the  shield,  women — the  shield  of  my  fathers  that 
hangs  in  the  entry.     I  shall  need  it,  too  ! " 

Over  in  Shakingarh,  Buktiyar  Khan,  impelled  likewise 
by  those  memories  of  the  past,  that  hatred  of  the  present, 
had  donned  his  uniform  likewise;  and  so  the  moonlight 
shone  on  cold  steel  and  damascened  gold  as,  silently  obeying 
some  inward  community  of  thought,  the  two  old  men  started 
silently  alone,  leaving  all  behind  them,  to  seek  for  Peace  in 
their  own  way. 

Steadily  over  the  arid  fields,  nearer  and  nearer  to  each 
other.  The  fields  had  been  cut  and  carried ;  the  harvest  was 
over ;  it  was  nigh  time  to  plough  again  for  a  fresh  crop 

Of  what? 

**  The  Peace  of  the  Unkoown  be  upon  you,  oh,  mine 
enemy,"  said  Bikrama  Smgh,  when  at  long  last  they  stood 
face  to  face  in  the  open. 

"And  the  Peace  of  the  Most  Mighty  be  on  you,  my 
foe,"  answered  Buktiyar  Kh&n. 

So  for  a  moment  there  was  silence.  Then  the  Rajput 
spoke,  his  old  voice  full  of  fire,  full  of  vibration. 

"In  the  old  days  to  which  we  belong,  oh,  Mahomedan ! 
did  brave  men  wait  for  Fat€  ? " 

"  They  did  not  wait,  oh,  Hindu,"  came  the  answer. 
"When  brave  men  found  sickness  or  dishonour  before 
them:  when  there  was  no  longer  hope  of  victory:  when 
that  which  lay  ahead  was  hateful,  and  they  left  sons  to 
carry  on  the  race,  did  not  the  ancestors  of  my  race  claim 
of  their  enemies  the  glorious  gift  of  battle  ? " 

"They  did  so  claim  it,  oh,  Bikrama  Singh  !  Dost  claim 
it  now  t " 

The  reply,  quick,  vibrant,  rang  through  the  moonlight  ; 
a  veritable  challenge. 


THE   GIFT   OF  BATTLE  95 

"  Yea,  Pathan — robber  !  thief  !  I  claim  it  now  1  Jug-ddn, 
Jug-dUn— the  Gift  of  Battle  to  the  Death.'' 

"Take  it,  pig  of  an  idolater !  Jug-dan,  Jug-d4n — the 
Gift  of  Battle  ! " 

The  still,  hot  air  became  full  of  faint  chinkings,  as 
buckles  were  settled  straight,  scabbards  thrown  aside. 
Then  there  was  an  instance  silence  as  the  two  old  warriors 
faced  each  other. 

''Art  ready  .  .  .  friend?"    The  question  came  softly. 

"  Yea !  I  am  ready  .  .  .  friend  !  "  The  reply  was  almost 
a  caress. 

So,  with  a  quick  clash  of  sword  on  sword,  youth  and 
health  and  strength  came  back  to  the  Hereditary  Enemies. 


It  matters  little  if  the  combat  ended  in  quarter  of  an 
hour,  half  an  hour,  or  an  hour;  whether  Bikrama  Singh  or 
Buktiyar  Khdn  got  in  the  first  blow.  The  moon  shone 
peacefully  on  the  Gift  of  Battle.  She  still  hung  a  white 
shield  on  the  grey  skies  of  dawn  when  Tim  O'Brien  and 
the  police  officer,  coming  to  do  their  disagreeable  duty, 
found  the  two  old  men  lying  stone  dead  within  swords' 
thrust  of  each  other  on  the  stubble. 

**  They  are  really  an  incomprehensible  lot,"  said  the 
police  officer,  almost  mournfully;  "why  the  deuce  should 
the  two  poor  old  buffers  come  out  and  kill  each  other,  as 
presumably  they  have " 

Tim  O'Brien  smiled  a  grim  smile.  "You  haven't  heard, 
I  suppose — why  should  ye — of  what  they  call  the  Gift  of 
Battle?  Well !  I  have.  It's  an  ould  Rajput  custom  by  which 
a  man  who  feared  he'd  die  in  his  bed  or  be  put  to  it  any 
way  by  any  other  stupid  inept  limitations,  could  claim  a 
decent  death  from  his  nearest  foe." 

"  Well !  they've  done  it.  That's  all,  and  small  blame  to 
them." 

"  By  God  who  made  me,  it's  a  protest  with  a  vengeance. 
But  the  worst  of  it  is,  the  Government  won't  see  it  and  I 
can't    explain    it.     Cipher    telegrams    won't    run    to    it 
So  .  .  .  peace  be  with  you,  friends  ! " 


THE   VALUE    OF    A   VOTE 

A  SKETCH  FROM  LIFE 


He  was  an  old  man;  a  very  eld  man.  A  Syyed — that 
is,  a  Mahomedan  who  claims  direct  descent  from  the 
prophet — by  trade  a  Yunani  hakeem,  or  physician 
according  to  the  Grecian  system,  introduced  to  India, 
doubtless,  by  Alexander  the  Great.  He  had  a  little  sort 
of  shop,  close  to  the  principal  gate  of  the  city,  where  he 
was  in  touch  with  all  those  who,  with  its  ship  the  camel, 
went  out,  or  came  back  from  the  desert  beyond,  and  w4th 
all  strangers  and  sojourners  in  the  land.  So  all  day  and 
every  day  you  might  see  w^earied  travellers  resting  on  the 
hard  wooden  platform  set  in  a  dark  archway,  of  which 
his  shop  consisted,  drinking  out  of  green  glass  tumblers  some 
restorative  sherbet  of  things  hot  or  things  cold,  things 
dry  or  things  wet,  while  he  showed  dimly  in  the  back- 
ground, a  visionary  outline  of  long  grey  beard  and  high 
white  turban.  In  this  way  he  heard  a  good  deal  of  what 
was  going  on  both  inside  and  outside  the  city,  and  as  he 
was  of  the  old  school  of  the  absolutely  loyal  outspoken 
Mahomedan,  who,  while  he  holds  our  rule  to  be  inferior 
to  that  of  his  own  faith,  emphatically  believes  it  to  be 
superior  to  all  others,  I  used  often  to  pause  in  riding 
into  or  out  of  the  city  for  a  chat  with  the  old  man ;  seldom 
without  benefit  to  myself.  One  morning— I  remember  it 
so  well  '.—the  gram  fields  outside  the  city  Avere  literally 
drenched  with  dew,  making  the  fine  tufts  look  like  diamond 
plumes,  amongst  which  the  wealth  of  tiny  purple  blue  pea 
blossom  showed  like  a  sowing  of  sapphires— I  found  him 
sitting  w^ith  a  troubled  look  on  his  high,  wrinkled  forehead, 
peering  through  his  horn  spectacles  at  a  blue  printed  paper. 

A  patient  was  snoring  contentedly  on  the  boards,  with, 
tucked  into  the  hollow  of  his  neck,  a  hard  roly-poly  bolster 
which  made  me  ache  to  look  at.  Nothing  brings  home  to 
one  the  impossibility  of  any  Western  judging  what  is,  or 

G  2 


100  THE   VALUE  OF  A  VOTE 

is  not  pleasant  or  convenient  to  an  Eastern  more  than 
the  ordinary  rolling  pin,  two  feet  by  six  inches,  stuffed 
hard  with  cotton  wool,  which  the  latter  habitually  uses  as 
ft  pillow.     The  sight  of  it  makes  a  Western  neck  feel  stiff. 

I  recognised  the  paper  at  once.  We  were  then  in  the 
throes  of  ''Local  Self  Government,"  and  a  violent  effort 
was  being  made  to  induce  this  little  far-away  town, 
inhabited  for  the  most  part  by  Pathans  (exiled  these 
centuries  back  from  northern  wilds  to  the  Indian  plain)  to 
elect  a  Municipal  Committee. 

I  had  spent  the  better  part  of  the  day  before  in 
explaining  to  various  Rais'es  or  honourable  gentlemen  of 
the  city,  that  no  insult  was  intended  by  asking  them  to 
put  themselves  up  to  auction  as  it  were  by  the  votes  of 
their  fellow  citizens,  instead  of  being  discreetly  and  as 
ever  nominated  to  the  office  of  Councillor  by  the  ''hated 
alien."  A  few  had  gravely  and  dutifully  given  in  to  this 
new  and  quite  incomprehensible  fad  of  the  constituted 
authorities,  others  had  hesitated,  but  one,  a  j&ery  old 
Khan  Bahadur,  who  was  a  retired  risseldar  from  one  of 
our  crack  native  cavalry  regiments,  had  sworn  with  many 
oaths  that  never  would  he  take  office  from,  amongst  others, 
the  perjured  vote  of  Gunpat-Lal,  pleader,  who  belonged 
to  his  ward,  and  whose  evil,  eloquent  tongue  had 
deliberately  diddled  him  out  of  ancestral  rights  in  a  poppy 
field  in  the  Huzoor's  own  court.  No  !  He  had  served  the 
Sirkar  with  distinction,  he  had,  with  his  own  hands,  nearly 
killed  an  agitator  he  had  found  in  the  lines ;  nay,  more  ! 
he  had  absolutely  sent  his  daughter  to  school  to  please 
the  sahih  logue;  but  this  was  too  much.  It  had  been  all  I 
could  do  to  prevent  the  hot-tempered  old  soldier  from 
giving  up  the  sword  of  honour  with  which  he  had  been 
presented  on  retirement,  as  a  signal  of  final  rupture  with 
the  Government. 

So,  as  I  say,  I  recognised  the  blue  paper  at  once  as  one 
of  many  voting  papers  which  had  been  sent  out  for  marking 
and  return ;  for  in  these  out  of  the  way  places  in  those 
days,  the  secret  ballot-box  was  not  the  best  blessing  of  the 
world,  as  it  is  now.  And  my  old  friend  the  hakeem  was,  I 
knew,  on  the  Aga  Khan's  ward. 


THE   VALUE   0"F  A JTOTE  101 

''What  have  you  got  to  do  with  i't  ?"  f  echoed,'  in  reply 
to  an  anxious  question.  ''Why,  put  a  mark  against  the 
Aga  Khan's  name  and  give  it  back  whence  it  came." 

He  salaamed  profoundly.  ''Huzoor!  that  was  the 
settled  determination  of  this  slave^  thus  combining  new 
duties  with  old— which  is  the  philosophy  of  faithful  life; 
but,  beiag  called  in  last  night  to  an  indigestion  in  his 
house,  which  I  combatted  with  burnt  almonds,  he  told 
me  that  if  I  so  much  as  went  near  his  honourable  name 
with  my  stylus,  I  should  cease  to  be  physician-in-ordiuary 
to  his  household.  And,  father  and  son,  we  have  been 
physicians  to  the  xA.ga  Khan  ever  since  our  fathers 
followed  his  fathers  from  Ghazni  in  that  capacity  with  the 
Great  Mahomed — on  whom  be  peace." 

''  Then  mark  one  of  the  other  names — which  you  choose, 
and  send  it  in,"  I  replied,  taking  no  notice  of  the 
scandalous  attempt  at  coercion  on  the  old  Aga  Khan's 
part. 

A  still  more  profound  salaam  was  the  answer.  "That 
also  would  have  occurred  to  me,"  came  the  suave  old 
voice,  "but  that  the  Aga  Khan  said,  with  oaths,  that  if 
I  so  much  as  made  a  chance  blot  on  this  cursed  paper 
against  any  of  the  names  thereon,  I  should  be  cast  for  life 
from  his  honourable  company." 

I  felt  quite  nettled.  Her  Majesty's  lieges  must  not  be 
intimidated  in  this  fashion.  "  Well !  you  must  think  of  the 
person  whom  you  consider  most  fitted  to  fulfil  all  the  many 
duties  which  will  devolve  on  him,  and  put  down  his  name," 
I  said,  for  in  these  days  when  we  really  wished  to  get  at 
the  wishes  of  the  people,  we  were  not  so  strict  about 
nominations  and  proposings  and  secondings  as  we  are  now, 
"  and  I  will  speak  again  to  the  Khan  Bahadur  and  see  if 
I  cannot  induce  him  to  stand."  (I  meant  to  do  so  by  threats 
of  exposure  for  using  force  to  Her  Majesty's  lieges  I) 

As  I  rode  oS,  my  horse  picking  its  way  through  the 
piles  of  melons,  the  bags  of  com,  the  jars  of  milk,  the 
nets  of  pottery  and  all  the  olla  podrida  of  trivial  daily 
merchandise  which  finds  pause  for  a  few  minutes  about 
an  active  gate  at  dawn  time,  the  patient  sat  up  straight 
from  his  backboard  and  yawned,  then  asked  for  another 


102  THJE  VALUi;  OF  A  VOTE 

violet    drink.'   But    tHe    hakeem    was    absorbed    in    the 
problem  of  voting. 

I  happened  that  day  to  have  business  in  the  city  in  the 
evening  also,  but  I  entered  by  another  gate,  so  that  the 
sun  was  nigh  setting  when,  on  my  homeward  way,  I  saw 
my  old  friend  the  Yunani  hakeem  sitting  with  his  pile  of 
little  medicine  bottles  and  tiny  earthenware  goglets  of 
pills  and  ointments  beside  him. 

He  was  pounding  away  at  something  in  a  minute  jade 
mortar  and  looked  no  longer  disturbed,  but  weary  utterly. 

''Have  you  settled  that  knotty  point,  hakeem  sahib T' 
I  asked. 

He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief,  but  pounded  away  faster  than 
ever.  ''I  give  God  thanks  I  have  been  led  into  the  way 
of  wisdom,"  he  replied,  ''else  would  I  be  harried,  indeed! 
Never,  within  the  memory  of  man,  have  so  many  gentle- 
men of  rank  been  sick  as  during  this  day.  I  am  but  now 
compounding  the  'Thirty-six-ingredient-drug'  for  one 
honourable  house,  and  have  but  just  finished  the  'Four- 
great-things  '  for  another.  'Tis  anxiety  about  the  elections, 
methinks,  for  they  talk  of  nothing  else.  Hardly  had  your 
Honour  left  this  morning,  than  Gunpat-Lal  sent  to  say  he 
had  a  belly-ache  which  his  idolatrous  miracle-monger  could 
not  touch.  I  had  it  away  in  half  an  hour  with  cucumber 
and  lemon  juice.  Cold  things  to  cold.  And  Lala-ji  full  of 
compliments  and  regrets  that  the  Aga  Sahib  would  not 
be  elected."  A  faintly  worried  air  crept  over  the  high 
old  face. 

"Did  he  ask  you  to  give  him  your  vote?"  I  enquired, 
with  a  sinking  at  my  heart. 

"Yea!"  replied  the  Yunani  hakeem  cheerfully,  "and 
offered  me  five  rupees  for  it." 

Ye  Gods  above  !  How  soon  political  corruption  seizes 
on  the  innocent,  I  thought. 

"But  others  have  offered  more/'  continued  the  old  man, 
with  a  certain  self-satisfaction.  Then  his  face  clouded. 
"Yonder  pasty-faced  knock-kneed  student,  who  calls 
himself  '  Hedditerlile-jackdaw  '  "  (Editor  Loyal  Objector) 
"told  me  it  was  his  by  right,  since  he  and  his  like  were 
Hindustan.     But  I  told  the  lad  God  had  ordained  other- 


THE   VALUE   OF  A  VOTE  103 

wise — for  look  you,  Huzoor,  we  Mussalmans  came  from 
the  north  many  long  years  before  the  sahib-logue  came 
from  the  west.  So  I  let  him  talk,  having,  by  God's  mercy, 
come  to  a  decision." 

"What  is  that,  hakeem-ji  ?  "  I  asked,  curious  to  know 
what  had  influenced  the  old  man. 

He  salaamed  quite  simply.  ''  The  Huzoor  bade  me 
think  who  could  best  do  the  work,  so  I  decided  to  vote 
for  him.  He  is  noble,  and  he  knows  what  has  to  be  done. 
He  knows  sanitation  and  inspekshon-conservance.  Also  new- 
sense,  and  karl-ra-pre-kar-sons,  and" — he  added,  with  the 
most  beautiful  supplementary  salaam  of  pure  flattery — ''all 
other  noble  arts  and  philosophies."  It  quite  gave  me  a 
pang  to  tell  him  that  this  scheme  of  his  would  not  work. 
That  I  was  ex  officio  president  of  the  Municipal  Committee, 
and  thus  beyond  the  reach  of  voters. 

His  face  was  illumined  by  a  vast  relief  even  amidst  his 
perplexities. 

"That  is  as  it  should  be,"  he  said  simply.  "The 
Sirkar  then,  has  not,  as  they  say,  quite  lost  its  head ;  the 
Huzoor  retains  it  still.     But  what  am  I  to  do?" 

I  left  him  looking  the  picture  of  woe,  absolutely 
unheeding  of  two  patient  travellers  who  had  been  awaiting 
my  departure  with  that  calm  stolid  disregard  of  the  passing 
hour  which  brings  with  it  to  the  Western  such  a  sense  of 
personal  grievance;  whereas  to  the  Eastern  it  only 
emphasises  his  trust  in  Providence  by  proving  the  omni- 
potence of  Fate. 

Next  morning,  however,  the  whole  aspect  of  affairs  had 
been  changed.  Hakeem-ji  was  alert,  spry,  surrounded  by 
quite  a  congregation  of  would-be  patients,  to  whom  he  was 
giving  out  his  dicta  with  quite  a  lordly  air. 

There  was  no  need  to  ask  him  if  he  had  settled  his 
vexed  question.  That  was  apparent.  I  simply  asked  him 
what  he  had  done  about  the  paper. 

"Huzoor,"  he  said  again,  with  that  lucid  candour  which 
was  so  marked  a  feature  of  the  man  himself,  "  the  Lord 
mercifully  directed  me.  Therefore  I  ate  it,  and  it  hath 
done  me  much  good." 

"Ate  itr'  I  echoed.     "  You  don't  mean  to  say " 


104  THE   VALUE   OF  A  VOTE 

"Huzoor!"  he  interrupted  cheerfully,  "this  is  how  it 
was.  After  your  Honour  left,  it  was  the  time  of  evening 
prayer.  So  I  went,  after  my  usual  custom,  to  the  House 
of  God,  to  await  the  cry  of  the  Muazzim  and  prepare 
myself  for  the  presence  of  the  Most  High  by  the  necessary 
ablutions.  And  as  I  sat  squatted  on  the  edge  of  the  Pool 
of  Purification,  my  hands  in  the  cool  water,  I  felt  as  if 
naught  could  cleanse  me  from  that  accursed  paper  that 
lay  folded  in  my  breast.  So  I  cried  in  my  heart  to  the 
prophet  that  he  should  show  me  a  way,  and  then  in  one 
moment  I  saw  where  the  error  lay.  I  was  arrogating  to 
myself  decisions  that  should  be  left  to  the  Almighty.  So 
I  did  what  I  do  ever  when  life  and  death  are  at  issue; 
when  even  the  mighty  skill  of  medicine  has  to  stand  on 
one  side  and  do  nothing. 

*'I  took  my  stylus,  and  I  wrote  all  over  that  paper  the 
attributes  of  the  Most  High— His  mercy.  His  truth.  His 
wisdom.  His  great  loving-kindness.  And  then,  Huzoor,  I 
crushed  it  into  the  form  of  a  bolus,  covered  it  with  silver 
foil,  and  swallowed  it  as  a  pill. 

''It  hath  done  me  much  good.  I  am  now  free  from 
anxiety.  The  decision  of  all  things  rests  with  the  Most 
Mighty." 


THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 


''The  Huzoor  is  the  salt  of  the  earth,"  said  Hoshyari 
Mull,  submissively.  He  had  been  educated,  he  asserted, 
at  a  mission  school:  thus  the  words  of  Scripture  came 
handy  to  him.     So  also  did  a  variety  of  other  things. 

"And  you  are  the  biggest  scoundrel  unhung.     I  know 
that,  though  I  can't  find  you  out— yet,*'  retorted  the  Boy, 
almost   savagely.     He   was    really   a   Boy,    a   round-faced, 
fresh-coloured   English    Boy,   though   his   years   numbered 
twenty-four,   and  he  was  a  full-blown  Salt  Patrol  on  the 
Great  Customs  Hedge,  which,  in  the  'fifties  and  'sixties,  still 
stretched  between  the  river  Indus,  as  it  flows  to  the  Arabian 
Sea,  and  the  Mahanuddi  river  that  finds  its  way  to  the  Bay 
of  Bengal;  in  other  w-ords,   stretched  for  fifteen  hundred 
miles  across  the  vast  continent  of  India.     It  was  a  strange, 
weird  barrier,  this  vast  hedge  of  cactus  and  thorny  acacia, 
of  prickly  palms,  and  still  more  prickly  agaves,  that  thrust 
out  their  spiked  swords  boldly  from  a  buckler  of  spine-set 
thicket.     It  was  fully  fourteen  feet  high,  and  of  its  width 
one  could  only  guess,  in  passing  through  the  break,  every 
ten  miles  or  so,  where  some  first-class  road  claimed  a  long 
passage-way  through  it.     Here  it  was  that  the  Patrols  had 
their  bungalows,  and  it  was  at  one  of  these  that  the  Boy 
lived.     It  was  a  very  important  post,  because  it  was,   so 
to  speak,   the  gateway  between  the   South-West  and  the 
North-East;    that   is    to    say,    between    Bombay    and    the 
Central  Provinces,  and  Delhi,  Oude,  Bengal.     Then,  lying 
as  it  did,   right  in  the  Eajputana  Desert,  with  no  other 
roadway  within  twenty  miles  of  it  on  either  side,  it  needed 
a   sharp  look  out  all   along  the   line   to   prevent  isolated 
attempts   at   smuggling.     But   the   Boy   was    quick   at  his 
work,  and  spent  all  his  youthful  energy  in  preserving  the 
intactness  of  his  Customs  Hedge.     The  life,  however,  was 
as  strange  and  weird  as  was  the  barrier.     Absolute  loneli- 
ness,  absolute  isolation.    For  long  months   together  not 


108  THE   SALT   OF   THE   EARTH 

one  word  of  your  mother-tongue.  With  luck,  a  weekly 
post.  No  books,  no  newspapers,  no  civilisation  of  any 
kind.  On  the  other  hand  there  was  endless  sport,  unfailing 
interest  for  those  who  loved  wild  things.  And  the  Boy 
had  never  been  one  for  books.  Harrow  had  left  him,  one 
may  say,  uncontaminated  by  them;  examinations  had 
passed  him  by ;  so,  though  both  his  grandfathers  had  been 
high  Indian  officials,  he  had  drifted  naturally  into  the  Salt 
Department;  the  last  refuge,  not  of  the  incompetent,  but 
the  unlearned.  There,  to  be  a  man  was  all  that  was  asked 
of  you.  Without  manhood  the  salt  had  lost  its  savour; 
there  was  no  possibility  of  salting  it  with  all  the  'ologies 
in  existence. 

Hoshyari  Mull  paused  in  his  deft  winding-on  of  the 
Huzoor's  putties,  to  say  submissively,  ''The  Salt  of  the 
Earth  speaks  truth."    Whereat  the  Boy  laughed. 

He  and  Hoshyari  were  at  once  friends  and  enemies. 
The  latter  was  chief  native  supervisor,  a  man  of  about 
forty,  above  middle  height,  smooth  faced  and  lissome. 
There  was  nothing,  the  Boy  soon  found  out,  which  he  could 
not  do;  which,  in  fact,  he  did  not  do.  An  excellent 
accountant,  he  was  also  an  excellent  shot.  If  he  knew, 
or  said  he  knew,  every  smuggler  of  salt  between  Attock 
and  Cuttack,  he  also  knew  every  bird  and  beast  and 
butterfly  by  name,  and  could  tell  you  the  habits  of  all  and 
sundry.  He  knew  the  history  of  Ancient  India  by  heart, 
and  could  pour  forth  legend  and  tale  by  the  yard.  He 
was  a  magnificent  swordsman,  and  could  teach  the  Boy, 
who  had  learnt  singlestick,  many  cuts  and  thrusts. 

In  short,  he  was  all  things  to  the  Boy;  without  him, 
life  in  the  Patrol  bungalow  would,  indeed,  have  lost  its 
savour.  And  yet  the  Boy  mistrusted  him,  for  no  reason, 
except  vaguely  that  he  was  too  clever  by  half.  Hoshyari, 
for  his  part,  regarded  the  Boy  as  he  had  regarded  no  other 
master.  He  had  been,  as  it  were,  impresario  of  amusement 
to  several  Huzoors  of  the  ordinary  type.  This  one  was 
different.  This  one  was  as  the  Angels  of  God.  That  is 
how  Hoshyari  put  it  to  himself,  and,  on  the  whole,  it  was 
a  sufficiently  comprehensive  description,  and  led  to 
thoroughly  wholesome  treatment.     Here  was  no  necessity 


THE   SALT   OF   THE   EARTH  109 

for  itr  of  rose,  no  distilled  waters  of  any  description,  save 
the  dew  of  heaven,  as  it  gathered  on  the  gram  fields  where 
the  black  buck  lay,  or  hung  like  a  diamond  on  a  cactus 
flower  over  which  some  rare  butterfly  hovered. 

But  there  was  no  dew  this  hot  May  dawn,  when 
Hoshyari  Mull,  with  the  deftness  of  an  expert,  was  putting 
the  woollen  bandages  on  the  Huzoor's  long  legs.  It  was 
not  his  work ;  but  then  half  the  things  he  did  were  not 
that.  ''  I  thought  you  were  a  Brahman ;  but  I  don't  believe 
you  are  even  a  Hindu,"  the  Boy  had  said  scornfully  to 
him  one  day,  when,  foraging  for  breakfast  in  a  village, 
Hoshyari  had  come  back,  triumphantly,  with  half  a  dozen 
eggs  in  his  high  caste  hand.  Hoshyari  had  smiled.  "I 
am  a  Srimali  Brahman,  Huzoor,"  he  had  replied  tolerantly. 
''The  Maharajah  of  Jaipur  salaams  to  me.  There  are 
none  here  in  the  wilderness  able  to  say  Hoshyari  hath 
defiled  himself." 

So  he  made  no  ado  about  this  putting  on  of  putties. 
They  were,  as  he  had  proved  to  the  Boy,  the  best  of  all 
protection  against  snake  bite.  With  them  on  you  might 
almost  venture  on  trying  to  find  a  gap  in  the  Great  Salt 
Hedge;  without  them  it  was  madness;  for  is  not  the 
prickly  pear  called  in  the  vernaculars,  naga-pan,  or  serpent 
shelter"?  And  on  these  hot  May  mornings,  as  well  as  at 
noontide,  were  there  not  along  the  Customs  line  many 
pairs  of  watching,  unwinking  eyes  lying  in  wait  for  the 
unwary,  beside  those  of  the  fourteen  thousand  humans  who 
patrolled  its  long  length  day  and  night  *? 

Truly  there  were.  As  they  cantered  along  it,  after 
passing  through  the  gateway,  many  a  faint  rustle  among 
the  colocynth  apples  at  its  base  told  of  death  among  the 
flowers.  For  the  Hedge  was  at  its  blossom  time.  Thorny 
salmon-coloured  capers  began  it,  with  here  and  there  a 
yellow  cactus  bloom,  or,  perhaps,  a  rare  red  one,  on  whose 
stems  the  wild  cochineal  insect  lay  like  tiny  spots  of 
blood.  Above  it,  a  wilderness  of  these  same  cactus 
flowers,  big  as  a  tea  cup,  primrose  within,  the  white 
stamens  ranged  sedately  round  the  whiter  star-pistil;  then 
yellow  without,  shading  to  purple.  Above  them  the  violet- 
scented  puff-balls  of  the  thorny  mimosa,  \vith  every  now 


110  THE   SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

and  again  a  great  lance  of  aloe  blossom,  brown  and  white, 
all  set  with  flower  bells. 

And  above  all,  butterflies,  dragon  flies,  moths,  flitting 
in  myriads.  "That  is  the  gap,  Huzoor,  where  the  ill- 
begotten  hound  of  a  Poorbeah  managed  to  smuggle  in  a 
back-load  of  salt  last  week.  He  was  going  to  carry  it  all 
the  way  to  Kashi  (Benares)  he  said.  As  the  Salt  of  the 
Earth  will  see,  it  is  now  thoroughly  mended,"  remarked 
Hoshyari,  with  a  debonair  smile  of  superiority. 

The  Boy  frowned.  There  was  too  much,  to  his  liking, 
of  these  petty  discoveries.  That  long  line  of  Hedge  had 
not  been  planted,  was  not  kept  up,  to  prevent  the  smuggling 
of  a  poor  back-load  of  salt.  He  looked  at  Hoshyari  with 
dissatisfaction  in  his  face. 

''When  are  we  going  to  find  something  worth  finding 
out?"  he  asked  cavalierly. 

''If  it  is  God's  will,  before  long,  Huzoor,"  was  the  reply, 
and  there  was  a  curious  undertone  of  certainty  about  it. 
"  Look,  my  lord !  yonder  are  the  buck.  They  are  on  the 
move  already;  we  must  hasten." 

They  were  off  at  a  gallop,  rifles  crossed  on  the  saddle 
bow,  over  the  hard  white  putt  ground  that  was  interspersed 
by  ribbed  drifts  of  fine  white  sand.  Hoshyari  sate  his  horse 
like  an  Englishman.  Indeed,  the  Boy,  looking  at  him,  used 
often  to  think  that,  barring  his  colour,  he  seemed  of  kindred 
race;  as,  in  truth,  he  was,  since  the  Srimali  Brahman  is 
Aryan  of  the  Aryans.  There  was,  in  fact,  only  that  vague 
distrust  to  keep  them  apart;  and  that  always  vanished 
before  sport. 

It  was  a  hot  day,  they  followed  the  buck  far,  then,  the 
Boy  having  a  sudden  headache  from  the  sun,  paused  by 
Hoshyari' s  advice  at  some  wandering  goatherd's  thatch 
for  a  hearth-baked  cake,  a  drink  of  milk,  and  a  rest  till 
noon  should  have  passed. 

A  very  hot  day;  and  the  Boy  rested  in  the  shade  of 
jund  tree  on  a  string  bed,  and  slept  profoundly. 

When  he  woke,  the  shadows  were  lengthening,  and 
Hoshyari,  squatted  on  the  ground  beside  him,  had  a  new 
look  on  his  face  ;  a  look  of  anxiety  mingled  with  satisfaction. 

*' Huzoor  I"  he  said,   "I  have  news  for  you!    What  I 


THE   SALT  OF   THE  EARTH  111 

have  always  prophesied,  what  I  have  always  told  you  would 
happen  if  the  Sirkar  were  not  more  careful,  has  come  to 
pass.  The  native  troops  in  Meerut  have  mutinied;  they 
have  gone  to  Delhi  and  murdered  the  Sahih-logue.  I  rode 
back  to  the  depot  while  the  Salt  of  the  Earth  slept,  to  see 
all  was  right,  and — and  I  heard  it  at  the  gate.'^ 

''At  the  gate,"  echoed  the  Boy,  still  stupid  with  sleep. 
''Who  brought  the  news — has  the  post  come  in?" 

Hoshyari's  face  was  a  study.  He  must  break  this  thing 
gently  to  the  Boy,  who  was  a  full-blown  Salt  Patrol,  or  he 
Avould  see  red,  try  to  kill  and  be  killed.  And  that  must 
not  be ;  quite  a  pang  at  the  very  thought  shot  through  heart 
and  brain,  making  him  realise  that  this  Boy  of  an  alien 
race  had  grown  dear  to  him. 

"  The  post  had  not  come  in,  Salt  of  the  Earth,"  he  said 
evasively.     "Men  brought  it  from  the  South." 

"  The  South,"  echoed  the  Boy  again,  with  a  relieved 
yawn ;  "  then  it's  a  lie.    How  could  they  know,  if  we  didn't  1 " 

Howl  Hoshyari  could  have  answ^ered  that  question 
easily;  he  knew  the  strange  wordless  rapidity  with  which 
news  travels  in  India;  in  Delhi  to-day,  in  Peshawur  to- 
morrow. A  mystery  that  has  passed  undiscovered  with  the 
coming  of  telegraphs  and  telephones  that  do  it  for  pennies 
and  twopences. 

Yes !  he  knew,  but  his  task  was  to  prevent  this  Angel 
of  God  from  putting  his  life  into  the  hands  of  men  who, 
at  best,  were  devils;  as  he  was,  himself,  at  bottom.  He 
knew  that  also.     Most  men  with  brains  did. 

"It  is  not  a  lie,  Huzoor,"  he  said,  simply.  "These 
men  are  mutineers  themselves.  They  are  going  to  join 
those  at  Delhi,  murdering  all  the  Sahibs  they  can  on  the 
way." 

He  had  laid  his  plan  while  the  Salt  of  the  Earth  slept, 
and  watched  the  effect  of  his  words  upon  the  Boy  narrowly ; 
hoping  that  even  the  defence  of  a  post  might  take  second 
place  before  the  duty  of  giving  a  w^aming — and  that  would 
mean  being  out  of  danger — for  the  time. 

The  Boy's  face  blanched.  He  had  been  away  to  the 
nearest  station,  fifty  miles  off,  for  a  three  days'  holiday 
at  Christmas,  and  the  remembrance  of  a  laughing  girl  with 


112  THE   SALT   OF   THE   EARTH 

blue  eyes  came  back  to  him  now  with  a  rush.     Hoshyari 
saw  his  chance,  and  went  on 

''The  plans  were  laid  for  later  on,  Huzoor,  so  they  are 
taken  by  surprise  themselves ;  yet  it  gives  them  advantage 
also,  since  everywhere  the  Sahibs  are  taken  by  surprise 
also ;  if  only  they  had  been  prepared  it  might  be  different." 

The  cunning  told;  the  Boy's  face  hardened  into  thought. 
Fifty  miles  on,  along  the  road.     He  might  do  it. 

"When  did  they  come  in"?  I  suppose  they  forced  the 
guard,"  he  added,  his  voice  almost  breaking  in  its  resent- 
ment. 

''About  noon,  Huzoor,"  came  the  wily  tones.  ''They 
were  wearied  out." 

So  much  the  better;  they  would  not  start,  likely,  till 
just  before  dawn  next  day.  If  he  could  give  warning.  He 
rose  and  looked  round  for  his  horse. 

Hoshyari  rose  also.  "The  Salt  of  the  Earth  cannot 
ride  through  the  gate,"  he  said— the  time  for  dissuasion 
had  come  now.     "  He  will  only  be  killed  in  the  attempt." 

The  Boy  rounded  on  him  instantly.  "Didn't  I  always 
tell  you  you  were  the  greatest  scoundrel  unhung?  Now 
I've  found  you  out,  you  skunk !  " 

"Has  this  slave  not  always  said  the  Huzoor  was  as 
the  Salt  of  the  Earth,"  came  the  instant  rapid  reply.  "  My 
lord,  listen!  This  is  the  Hand  of  Fate.  Wise  men  bow 
to  it.  You  are  here,  safe,  alone,  none  know  of  you.  Come 
with  this  slave  and  he  will  save  you  ..." 

"D — n  you,  you  scoundrel,"  shouted  the  Boy  blindly, 
and  fumbled  for  the  stirrups. 

"  Huzoor  !  that  is  useless  !  "  came  Hoshyari's  voice,  quiet 
now ;  all  entreaty  gone.  In  its  place  almost  command. 
"You  cannot  force  the  barrier.  Where  we  had  one  man, 
they  have  ten." 

"I  will  try,"  muttered  the  Boy,  doggedly.  "I  can 
but  try." 

"The  Huzoor  can  do  better,"  said  Hoshyari.  "He  can 
come  with  me.    I  know  a  way." 

Even  in  his  excitement  the  full  meaning  of  this  came 
home  to  the  Boy. 


THE   SALT   OF   THE   EAETH  113 

''You  know?"  he  echoed  under  his  breath,  ''didn't  I 
always  say  you  were  the  greatest  scoundrel  unhung?" 

"And  the  Huzoor  is  the  Salt  of  the  Earth,"  came  the 
unfailing  reply. 

The  rapid  Indian  dusk  was  falling  as  they  made  their  way 
on  foot  to  a  village  which,  though  almost  exactly  opposite 
the  barrier,  still  lay  the  orthodox  half  mile  from  the  Hedge, 
within  which,  by  rule  of  the  Salt  Department,  no  building 
might  be  erected.  The  Boy  was  now  in  native  dress,  for 
Hoshyari  had  utilised  the  interval  of  time  in  arranging 
for  the  former's  midnight  ride  of  warning. 

In  reporting  on  these  arrangements,  he  had  given  scope 
to  his  imagination  as  to  their  difficulty.  In  reality,  he 
had  only  had  to  ride  up  to  the  barrier,  give  the  password, 
and  enter,  to  be  welcomed  as  one  of  the  party  within. 
Whether  he  was  at  heart  one  of  them,  or  whether,  all  things 
considered,  his  cleverness  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that 
it  was  best  for  his  purpose  to  fall  in  with  their  mood  for 
the  time  being,  is  uncertain;  but  that  purpose  was  clear, 
namely,  to  get  the  Boy  out  of  the  danger  zone  if  he  could. 
So  he  raised  no  objection  to  the  looting  of  the  Salt  Patrol's 
bungalow — the  little  Salt  Patrol  who,  doubtless,  had  run 
away  into  the  jungle  in  the  hope  of  escape,  being  but  a 
mere  boy — but  the  office  must  be  let  alone.  There  must 
be  no  tampering  with  books  and  registers,  since  he. 
Hoshyari  Mull,  Srimali  Brahman,  whose  father — God  rest 
him — ^had  been  Prime  Minister  to  a  Prince,  was  accountable 
for  them  to  the  powers  that  be — be  they  John  Company  or 
the  Badshah.  Therefore  the  doors  must  be  locked  and  the 
keys  given  to  him.  And  that  Kathyawar  mare  in  the  stable 
was  his;  so  that  was  an  end  of  it.  Whoever  laid  hands 
on  the  beast  would  rue  the  deed.  But  all  this  was  past: 
now  he  had  to  get  the  Boy  through  the  Hedge,  incredible 
though  it  seemed.  "The  furthermost  house  in  the  village 
is  mine,  Huzoor,"  said  Hoshyari,  gravely.  "It  is  thence 
that,  in  disguise,  I  penetrate  the  evil  designs  of  the 
smugglers." 

The  Boy  ground  his  teeth,  and  was  silent.  He  knew 
what  he  would  say;  but  this  was  not  the  time  to  say  it; 
this  was  the  time  to  warn  his  countrymen. 

H 


114  THE  SALT   OF  THE  EARTH 

They  found  the  tiny  hamlet  deserted;  as  all  knew,  half 
India  fled  before  the  mutineers. 

"It  is  as  well,"  remarked  Hoshyari,  hardily,  ''  since  they 
might  talk,  though  none  know  of  the  secret  save  this  slave 
and  Suchet  Singh,  the  waiting-house  keeper." 

But  as  they  came  upon  what  was  called  the  waiting- 
house,  since  here  salt  that  arrived  without  proper  papers, 
or  that  failed  to  pay  the  toll,  was  held  up,  they  found 
Buchet  Singh  the  Sikh  lying  dead  at  his  post.  The  Boy 
ground  his  teeth  again.  So  would  he  be  lying  but  for  his 
desire  not  only  to  die,  but  to  do. 

"Look  sharp,  will  you,"  he  said,  roughly,  to  his  com- 
panion, "we  lose  time.     The  moon  will  be  up  ere  long." 

Hoshyari  led  the  way  across  a  yard ;  an  ordinary  village 
house  yard  with  a  row  of  three  or  four  native  corn  granaries 
standing  against  one  wall.  These  are  huge  basketwork 
erections,  each  taller  than  a  man,  in  shape  not  unlike  a 
big  pickle  bottle,  fixed  to  the  ground  and  carefully  plastered 
over  with  mud  and  cow  dung. 

"  They  are  all  full,"  said  Hoshyari,  with  a  curious  smile, 
as  he  passed  one ;  and,  sure  enough,  as  he  lifted  the  little 
sliding  door  at  the  bottom,  a  tiny  moraine  of  wheat  fell 
forward  in  the  half  light.  But  the  next  instant,  with  a 
dexterous  twist  of  his  hand,  the  whole  hothe  slid  round  as 
on  a  pivot,  disclosing  a  round  well-like  hole. 

"We  shall  need  a  light,"  said  Hoshyari  in  a  matter-of- 
fact  tone,  and  produced  a  tinder  box  and  a  candle  from 
a  niche  at  his  feet. 

Once  again  the  Boy  ground  his  teeth.  So  this  was  the 
way,  was  it?  and  all  the  time  this  biggest  scoundrel  that 
ever  went  unhung  was  discovering  miserable  back-loads  of 
smuggling  !  Words  had  failed  him  long  since ;  now  thought 
failed  him  also;  he  plodded  on,  his  head  bent,  down  the 
narrow  subterranean  passage  that  scarcely  showed  in  the 
flickering  candle  light. 

But  here,  surely,  there  was  less  gloom  and  more  room. 
He  stood  upright  and  glanced  above  him.  A  star  showed 
through  a  tangle  of  branches. 

"We  are  under  the  Great  Hedge,  Huzoor,"  said 
Hoshyari,    deferentially,    in    answer    to    his    look.     "The 


THE  SALT   OF  THE  EARTH  115 

passage  needed  air,  and  we  also  required  to  have  a  store 
closer  at  hand."  He  held  up  the  light,  and  it  fell  faintly 
on  rows  on  rows  of  sacks  of  salt  ranged  round  a  central 
space.  "It  is  quite  light  here  in  the  daytime,  Huzoor," 
he  went  on  cheerfully.  ''  Sometimes  the  sun  actually  shines 
in ;  and  the  snakes  do  not  fall  down  now  that  we  have  put 
a  net  across  the  opening." 

So  this  was  one  of  the  things  concealed  in  the  great 
width  of  the  Hedge.  Vfho  would  have  dreamt  of  it  1  Who 
could  have  dreamt  if?  Something  of  the  comicality  of  the 
whole  affair  was  beginning  to  filter  into  the  Boy's  brain; 
he  caught  himself  wondering  where  the  passage  ended — 
under  his  bed,  maybe  ! 

It  was  almost  as  bad.  ''We  are  there,  Huzoor,"  said 
Hoshyari,  mounting  some  steep  steps,  and  then  swung  a 
panel  blocking  the  passage  backwards.  It  had  shelves  on 
it,  and  books.  He  heard  the  turning  of  a  key,  he  followed 
his  leader,  and  the  next  minute  stood  in  the  growing  light 
which  presages  a  rising  moon,  inside  the  ofiice  room, 
looking  stupidly  at  what  lay  behind  him ;  only  a  cupboard 
in  the  mud  wall  where  the  ledgers  were  kept. 

Dazed  as  he  was,  he  yet  realised  partly  how  it  was  done. 
The  wall  must  be  thicker  than  it  seemed — twice,  three 
times,  perhaps  four  times  as  thick — but  who  would  have 
dreamed!  And  for  the  rest?  He  looked  at  Hoshyari 
defiantly — the  latter  answered  in  words. 

''It  was  quite  easy,  Huzoor,"  he  replied,  lightly.  "We 
could  always  replace  salt  that  was  taken  from  the  Govern- 
ment storehouse  next  door  with  salt  from  our  storehouse 
yonder.     And  that  paid  nothing." 

The  Boy  gave  a  little  gasp.  But  there  was  no  time  for 
that  sort  of  thing  now.  The  Kathyawar  mare  was  waiting, 
the  moon  would  be  up  in  ten  minutes  or  so,  and  he  must  be 
beyond  sight  of  the  chattering  devils  he  could  hear  outside 
before  them ;  but  perhaps — yes  !  perhaps  he  might  be  able  to 
come  back — to  come  back  and  give  these  fellows  their  deserts. 

"I'll  pay  you  out  yet — you're  the  greatest  scoundrel  un- 
hung," he  said,  thickly,  as  Hoshyari  held  the  stirrup  for  him. 

"And  the  Huzoor  is  the  Salt  of  the  Earth,"  came  the 
urbane  reply. 

H  2 


116       THE  SALT  OF  THE  EARTH 

After  that  there  was  silence  on  the  far  side  of  the  office 
for  five  minutes — for  ten  minutes.  Then,  faint  and  far, 
only  to  be  heard  of  an  anxious  listener,  came  the  sound 
of  a  horse's  hoofs  as  it  was  let  into  its  stride. 

The  Huzoor  had  got  through  the  picket,  and  if  he 
only  remembered  instructions,  might  be  considered  safe 
for  those  fifty  miles  across  country.  Hoshyari  drew  a 
breath  of  relief,  shut  the  door,  and  lay  down  placidly  to 
sleep,  feeling  he  had  done  his  best.  It  is  true  he  had  sent 
the  Angel  of  God  on  a  wild  goose  chase;  for,  briefly,  the 
mutineers  had  gone  on  straight  that  morning,  only  leaving 
a  strong  guard  at  the  gate  to  keep  it  until  the  second  body 
of  rebels  should  come  in  next  day. 

So  by  this  time,  doubtless,  the  fate  of  Englishmen — aye, 
and  every  Englishwoman,  too,  on  the  route  to  Delhi  must 
have  been  settled.  But  the  ride  would  keep  the  Salt  of 
the  Earth  out  of  danger,  since  it  prevented  him  from  doing 
rash  things ;  which  otherwise  he  was  sure  to  have  done ; 
for  what  was  the  use  of  losing  one's  life  in  fighting  two 
to  a  hundred ;  still  less  if  it  were  only  one.  And  these 
things  were  on  the  knees  of  the  Gods.  No  1  there  was  no 
use,  especially  when  the  store  ammunition  was  in  the  hands 
of  the  enemy  and  you  had  expended  your  pouch  full  on 
black  buck.  The  Huzoor  was  best  away.  With  luck  he 
would  only  find  the  cold  ashes  of  outbreak.  The  hurricane 
of  revolt  would  have  spent  itself,  for,  after  all,  it  was  only 
the  soldiers  who  would  mutiny.  The  rabble  in  the  towns 
might  follow  suit;  but  there  was  safety  yet  in  the  country. 

So  he  fell  asleep. 

When  he  woke  it  was  broad  daylight.  Daylight  1  Why, 
it  must  be  nigh  on  noon.  He  stepped  to  the  door  and 
looked  through  the  panes.  Aye !  the  sentry  in  the  verandah 
was  eating  his  bread.  And  the  other  detachment  had 
come  in.  The  courtyard  was  crowded  with  men.  So  much 
the  better,  for  they  would  only  rest  during  the  heat  of 
the  day,  and  go  on  at  sundown.  Thus  there  would  be  peace 
before  the  Salt  of  the  Earth  could  possibly  return — if  he 
did  return;  but  once  away  from  his  post  he  would,  most 
likely,  and  wisely,  make  for  security  to  the  north. 

Meanwhile,  it  was  time  for  him  to  think  of  himself. 


THE   SALT   OF  THE   EARTH  117 

There  was  gold  in  the  safe  yonder,  and  it  would  be  folly  to 
leave  it  to  new  masters  who  had  no  more  right  to  it  than  he. 
He  went  over  to  it,  set  the  iron  door  open  and  began  to 
gather  together  what  he  found. 

The  room  was  very  still,  but  on  the  one  side  came  the 
clamour  of  the  newly-arrived  rebels.  He  gave  one  last 
glance  at  them  through  the  closed  door,  then  slipped  into 
the  verandah  on  the  other  side.  Then  he  paused  before  a 
dusty  swaying  figure  that,  throwing  up  its  arms  as  it  saw 
him,  came  at  him  like  a  wild  beast.  It  was  a  time  for  calm 
— with  those  men  in  the  courtyard,  a  time  of  calm  for  both ! 

He  stood  back  a  step  and  said,  quietly,  "  So  you  have 
returned— Salt  of  the  Earth." 

The  Boy  seemed  for  an  instant  dazed^  then  a  loud,  reckless 
laugh  rang  out,  "  Come  back  !  Yes  1  I've  come  back  to  kill 
you,  you  d — d  scoundrel.    I've  come  back  as  I  said  I'd  come." 

*'I  saved  the  Huzoor's  life,"  interrupted  Hoshj^ari, 
quietly,  "  and  I'll  save  it  again,  if  he  will  not  speak  so  loud ; 
the  sentry  will  hear,  and  then " 

''Let  him  hear— I'll  have  time  to  kill  you  first,"  went 
on  the  Boy,  blindly ;  for  all  that  he  lowered  his  voice ;  the 
instinct  of  belief  in  Hoshyari's  wisdom  v:as  strong. 

''  The  Huzoor  would  not  have  time,"  whispered  the 
latter,  blandly.  ''I  am  no  fool  at  wrestling,  as  he  knows; 
and  he  knows  also  that  I  tried  to  save  him." 

There  was  a  sudden  unexpected  appeal  in  the  tone  which 
surprised  even  the  man  himself.  He  could  have  cried  over 
this  Angel  of  God  who  refused  to  be  saved. 

The  Boy  looked  at  him  with  dry  hot  eyes;  there  were 
no  tears  there — he  had  seen  too  many  horrors  for  that. 
And  he  had  ridden  all  night,  all  day,  till  the  Kathyawar 
mare  had  dropped  with  him;  then  he  had  stumbled  on  as 
best  he  might,  intent  on  revenge.  And  now  the  sight  of 
Hoshyari  was  as  the  sight  of  a  friend's  face :  it  brought  back 
the  memory  of  so  many  jolly  times  they  had  had  together. 
And  what  he  said  was  true :  the  man  had  tried  to  save  him. 

He  had  to  bolster  up  his  anger.  ''It — it's  the  other 
thing  you've  got  to  answer  for,  you — you  thief." 

Hoshyari'a  eyes  gleamed.  "Don't  call  me  that  again, 
Huzoor.  I  am  no  thief.  I  was  only — cleverer  than  other  folk. ' ' 


118  THE   SALT   OF  THE   EARTH 

*'  I'll  call  you  it  ten  times  over  if  I  choose.  Thief  !  mean, 
miserable,  petty  thief." 

There  was  something  more  savage  in  the  whispered 
quarrel  than  if  the  two  had  been  shouting  at  each  other, 
and  Hoshyari's  gasp  of  rage  fell  on  absolute  silence,  as, 
breathing  hard,  they  looked  at  each  other. 

Then  the  Boy  passed  his  hand  wearily  over  his  forehead. 
'^No!"  he  said.  ''I  can't — you're  right — I  can't  kill  you 
like  a  dog — we  must  fight  it  out — there  are  foils  or  swords 
somewhere— foils  with  the  buttons  off— where  are  they?" 

His  dependence  on  the  elder  man  showed  in  his  help- 
lessness ;  he  asked  as  a  child  might  have  asked. 

There  was  almost  a  sob  in  his  throat,  but  the  voice 
which  answered  was  firm. 

''They  are  on  the  wall,  Huzoor;  but  we  cannot  fight 
here;  the  sentry  would  hear,  and " 

"D — n  the  sentry,"  said  the  Boy  again,  helplessly. 
''What  can  we  do?" 

Hoshyari  thought  for  a  moment.  "  There  is  light  enough 
m  the  storehouse  under  the  Great  Hedge "  he  began. 

The  Boy  leapt  up,  fire  in  his  eyes.  "  By  God  in  heaven, 
it  shall  be  there — and,  mind  you,  it's  to  the  death,  you 
cursed  smuggler." 

"To  the  death,  Salt  of  the  Earth."  A  minute  later  the 
false  back  to  the  record  cupboard  swung  to  its  lock  with 
a  click,  and  the  office  was  empty. 

4t  *  *  *  * 

The  cactus  flowers  bloomed  and  faded;  the  violet- 
scented  mimosa  puff-balls  fell  in  gold  shovv  ers  on  the  green 
lobes,  the  aloe  bells  withered  in  silence,  the  waiting, 
watching  eyes  waited  and  watched  in  vain.  If  the  snakes, 
as  they  slid  over  the  netting-covered  round  hole  in  the 
thickness  of  the  great  Salt  Hedge,  had  looked  down  into 
the  widening  sunlit  circle  below  them,  what  would  they 
have  seen  ? 

Who  knows,  since  Suchet  Singh  the  Sikh  lay  dead  at 
his  post. 


AN   APPRECIATED    RUPEE 


She  was  a  poor  Mahomedan  widow,  and  lived  in  an 
unconceivable  sort  of  burrow  under  the  tall  winding  stair 
of  a  big  tenement  house,  which  in  its  turn  was  hidden  away 
in  a  long,  winding,  sunless  alley.  The  stair  centred  round 
a  sort  of  shaft,  barred  at  each  storey  by  iron  gratings, 
narrow  enough  to  admit  of  refuse  being  thrown  down — the 
shaft  being,  briefly,  the  rubbish  shoot  of  the  building,  so 
that  old  Maimuna — who  seldom  left  her  seclusion  till  the 
evening — had,  in  passing  to  and  fro,  to  step  over  quite 
a  pile  of  radish  parings,  cauliflower  stalks,  fluff,  rags — a 
whole  day's  sweepings  and  leavings  of  the  folk  higher  up 
in  the  world  than  she. 

And  even  when  she  reached  the  odd-shaped  cell  of  a 
place,  whose  only  furniture  consisted  of  a  rickety  bed  with 
string-halt  in  two  of  its  emaciated  legs,  a  low  stool  and  a 
spinning  wheel,  she  was  not  free  from  her  neighbours' 
off-scourings ;  for  down  the  wall  beside  the  low  latticed 
window,  where,  perforce,  she  had  to  set  her  spinning  wheel, 
crept  a  slimy  black  streak  of  sewage  from  above,  which 
smelt  horribly,  on  its  way  to  join  the  open  drain  in  the 
middle  of  the  alley.  Yet  here  Maimuna  Begam,  Patha-ni 
from  Kasur,  had  lived  for  fifteen  years  of  childless  widow- 
hood ;  lived  far  away  from  her  home  and  people,  too  poor 
to  rejoin  them,  too  ignorant  to  hold  her  own  among 
strangers.  For  she  had  been  that  most  intolerable  of 
interlopers — the  wife  of  a  man's  old  age.  !N^ot  a  suitable 
Avife  bringing  a  dower  into  the  family;  but  one  who,  as  a 
widow,  might — unless  the  other  heirs  took  active  measures 
to  prevent  it — claim  her  portion  of  one-sixth  for  life.  A 
wife,  too,  without  a  pretence  of  any  position  save  that  of 
the  strictest  seclusion ;  a  seclusion  so  untouched  by  modern 
latitude  as  to  be  in  itself  second-rate.  Without  good  looks 
also,  and  married  simply  and  solely  because  old  Jehan 
Latif  had  fancied  some  quail  curry  which  he  had  eaten 


122  AN  APPEECIATED   RUPEE 

when  business  called  him  to  Kasur,  and,  as  the  best  way 
of  securing  repetition  of  the  delicacy,  had  married  the 
compounder  and  carried  her  back  to  Lucknow;  where,  to 
tell  truth,  he  found  more  attractions  in  the  cook  than  he 
had  anticipated  when  he  paid  a  good  round  sum  for  his 
middle-aged  bride.  For  Maimuna  was  a  good  woman — 
kindly,  gentle,  pious — who  had  lived  discreetly  in  her 
father's  house,  and  helped  to  cook  quail  curry  for  that 
somewhat  dissolute  old  swashbuckler  ever  since,  as  a  girl 
of  twelve,  her  husband  had  died  before  she  had  even  seen 
him. 

So,  while  she  pounded  the  spices  and  boned  the  quails 
(since  that  was  one  of  the  refinements  of  the  honne-houche) 
for  old  Jehan  Latif,  Maimuna  used  sometimes  to  think, 
with  a  kind  of  wondering  regret,  what  life  would  have  been 
like  if  the  husband  of  her  youth  had  not  died  of  the  measles  ; 
but,  being  conscientious,  she  never  allowed  the  tears  to 
drop  into  the  quail  curry ! 

It  was  no  carelessness  of  hers,  therefore,  which  led  to 
fat  Jehan  Latif  falling  into  a  fit  shortly  after  partaking 
of  his  favourite  dish,  which  for  ten  years  she  had  dutifully 
prepared  for  him.  None-the-less,  his  heirs  (who  had  had 
all  these  years  in  which  to  cook  their  accounts  of  the 
matter)  treated  her  as  if  it  were.  There  is  no  need  to  enter 
into  details.  Those  who  know  India  know  how  unscrupulous 
heirs  can  oppress  a  strange  lone  woman — ignorant,  secluded ; 
a  woman  whose  position  as  wife  has  from  the  first  been 
cavilled  at,  resented,  impugned.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that 
Maimuna,  after  a  few  feeble  protests,  found  herself  in  the 
little  cell  under  the  stairs,  earning  a  few  farthings  by  her 
spinning  wheel,  and  thankful  that  her  great  skill  at  it  kept 
her  from  that  last  resort  of  deserted  womanhood  in  India — 
the  quern.  Even  so,  it  was  hard  at  times  to  wait  till  there 
was  sufficient  thread  in  the  percentage  she  got  back  for 
her  spinning,  to  make  it  worth  while  for  the  merchant  to 
buy  it  from  her,  or  for  her  to  break  in,  by  a  cash  transaction, 
on  the  curious  succession  of  cotton  bought,  and  thread 
returned,  without  a  coin  changing  hands.  And  this  winter 
it  was  harder  than  ever,  for  the  unusual  cold  made  her 
fingers  stiff,  and  sent  shoots  of  rheumatism  up  her  arm  as 


AN  APPRECIATED  RUPEE  123 

she  sat  spinning  in  the  ray  of  light  which  came  in  with 
the  smell. 

It  was  very  cold  indeed  that  New  Year's  afternoon, 
and  Maimuna  felt  more  than  usually  down-hearted ;  for 
there  had  been  a  death  upstairs,  and  she  knew  that  the 
stamping  and  shufflings  she  could  hear  coming  rhythmically 
downwards  over  her  head  were  the  feet  of  those  carrying 
a  corpse.  Now,  weary  and  worn  as  she  was,  Maimuna — 
between  the  fifties  and  sixties — did  not  yet  feel  inclined 
to  fold  her  hands  and  give  in.  Even  now  it  needed  a  very 
little  thing  to  bring  a  smile  to  her  face ;  and  once,  when  a 
child  had  fallen  downstairs,  she  had  surprised  the  neigh- 
bours by  her  alert  decision  So  that  when  she  heard  girls' 
shrill  voices  in  half-giggling  alarm  through  her  door — 
which  was  ajar — she  guessed  at  the  cause,  and  called  to  the 
owners  to  come  in  until  the  stairs  should  be  clear. 

One  (a  slip  of  a  thing  ten  years  old)  she  knew  as  the 
daughter  of  a  gold-thread  worker  higher  up  the  stairs ; 
the  other  (not  more  than  five  or  six)  was  a  stranger;  a  fat 
broad-faced  morsel,  with  a  stolid  look,  and  something  held 
very  tight  in  one  small  chubby  hand.  She  was  dressed  in 
the  cleanest  of  new  clothes,  scanty  of  stuff,  but  gay,  with 
a  yard  or  two  of  tinsel  on  her  scrap  of  a  veil.  Maimuna 
paused  in  the  whirr  and  hum  of  her  wheel  to  look  at  the 
children  wistfully ;  her  own  childlessness  had  always  seemed 
a  crime  to  her. 

^'It  is  Fatma,  the  pen-maker's  girl,  Mai,"  said  the  gold- 
worker's  daughter,  patronisingly.  ''She  is  just  back  from 
the  Missen  School,  where  they  have  been  having  a  big 
festival  because  it  is  the  sahih  Iryfs  big  day." 

''Tchuk,"  dissented  the  solemn-faced  baby,  clucking  her 
tongue  in  emphatic  denial.     ''It  is  not  the  Big  Day.    It  is 

because  Maliha  Victoria  is— is "     The  solemnity  merged 

m  confusion,  finally  into  a  sort  of  appealing  defiance  :  "Is — 
is — thai " 

She  unclasped  her  fist,  and  held  out  a  brand  new  shining 
silver  two-anna  bit.  It  was  one  of  those  struck  when  her 
Majesty  the  Queen  assumed  the  Imperial  title. 

The  gold-worker's  daughter  giggled.  "  She  means 
Wictoria   Kaiser-i-hind,   vou  know.     What   the   guns   were 


124  AN  APPRECIATED   RUPEE 

about  this  morning.  They  are  to  go  off  every  year,  they 
say.     That  will  be  fun !  " 

"But  why?"  asked  Maimuna,  puzzled.  Her  life  for 
close  on  five-and-twenty  years  had  been  spent  in  the 
cooking  of  quail  curry  and  spinning  of  cotton — the  very 
Mutiny  had  passed  by  unknown  to  her.  She  had  heard 
vaguely  of  the  Queen,  and  knew  that  it  was  her  head  on 
the  rupee  which,  despite  the  hard  times,  she  always  wore 
on  a  black  silk  skein  round  her  neck,  because  she  had  worn 
it  since  her  babyhood,  when  the  parents  of  the  boy  who  had 
died  of  the  measles  had  sent  it  her;  but  what  the  Queen 
had  to  do  with  John  Company  Bahadar,  or  he  to  her,  was 
a  mystery, 

''Why,"  giggled  the  elder  girl,  ''because  she  is  going 
to  be  the  King,  and  turn  all  the  men  out.  That  is  what 
father  says.  He  says  she  is  sure  to  favour  the  women,  and 
I  think  that  will  be  fun.  But  Fatma  knows  it  all.  Come ! 
dear  one  !  Sing  Maimuna  that  song  the  miss  sahibs  made 
the  schools  sing  to-day.  Sing  it  soft,  close,  close  up  to  her 
ear,  so  that  no  one  may  hear  it — for  they  don't  like  her 
singing,  you  know,  at  home,  Mai:  it  isn't  respectable." 

So,  standing  on  tip-toe,  steadying  herself  against 
Maimuna' s  arm  by  the  hand  which  held  the  two-anna  bit, 
Fatma  began  in  a  most  unmelodious  whisper  to  chant  a 
Hindee  version  of  "God  Save  our  Gracious  Queen."  The 
words  as  well  as  the  tune  were  a  difficulty  to  the  fat, 
solemn-faced  child,  but  the  old  woman  sat  listening  and 
looking  at  the  two-anna  bit  with  a  new  interest,  a  new 
wonder  in  her  weary  eyes. 

"Bismillah!"  she  said,  half  way  through,  when  the 
gold-worker's  daughter,  becoming  impatient,  declared  the 
corpse  must  have  passed,  and  dragged  Fatma  off  incon- 
tinently.    "And  she  is  a  woman — only  a  woman!" 

The  girls  paused  at  the  door;  the  elder  to  nod  and 
giggle,  the  younger  to  stand  sedate  and  solemn,  wagging 
one  small  forefinger  backwards  and  forwards  in  negation. 

"  Tchuk !  you  shouldn't  say  that,  Mai!  Little  girls  are 
made  of  sugar  and  spice.  It  is  little  boys  that  are  made 
nasty — the  miss  says  so." 

"She  should  not  say  so,"   faltered  Maimuna,   aghast. 


AN  APPRECIATED   RUPEE  125 

The  very  idea  was  preposterous,  upsetting  her  whole 
cosmogony;  but  when  they  had  closed  the  door,  she  sat 
idle,  too  astonished  to  work.  Then,  suddenly,  she  took  o££ 
the  black  silk  hank  with  its  precious  rupee,  and  looked  at 
the  woman's  head  at  the  back. 

It  was  a  young  woman  there;  young  and  unveiled — 
strange,  incomprehensible  !  But  that  other  on  the  two-anna 
bit  had  been  an  old  woman,  more  decently  dressed,  and 
with  a  crown  on  her  head, 

"  Frustrate  their  knavish  tricks." 

Fatma's  song  returned  to  memory.  So  the  Queen,  too, 
had  enemies;  and  yet  she  was  Kaiser-i-hind,  and,  what  is 
more,  she  made  men  like  the  gold-thread  worker  upstairs 
tremble  ! 

"On  thee  our  hopes  we  fix!" 


Maimuna  sat,  and  sat,  and  sat,  looking  at  that  rupee, 

^  ^  -K-  -X-  * 

It  was  a  day  or  two  after  this  that  an  English  official  was 
sitting  smoking  in  his  verandah,  when  he  became  aware  of 
a  whispered  colloquy  behind  him.  It  was  someone,  no 
doubt,  trying,  through  the  red-coated  chaprasi,  to  gain  an 
audience  of  him;  and  he  was  newly  back  from  office,  tired, 
impatient,  perhaps,  of  the  hopelessness  of  doing  justice 
always.  So  he  took  no  notice  till  something  roused  him 
to  a  swift  turn,  a  swifter  question.  "What's  that, 
cliaprasiV  That  was  the  unmistakable  chink  of  fallen 
silver,  the  unmistakable  whirr  of  a  running  rupee,  the 
unmistakable  buzzing  ring  of  its  settling  to  rest.  And 
there,  midway  between  a  giving  and  a  taking  hand,  lay 
the  rupee  itself— the  Queen's  head  uppermost. 

''Hazoorl"  explained  the  chaprasi,  glibly,  '|your  slave 
was  virtuously  refusing;  he  was  sending  this  ill-bred  one 
away.     Hat!  hudhH*  Hat!" 

But  the  sight  of  that  head  on  the  precious  rupee,  which, 
after  many  heartsearchings,  poor  Maimuna  had  determined 

*  Old  woman. 


126  AN  APPRECIATED   RUPEE 

to  risk  in  this  effort  to  gain  justice  from  a  hudhi  like  herself, 
v/hose  enemies  also  had  knavish  tricks,  brought  courage  to 
the  old  heart,  and  the  old  woman  stood  her  ground. 

"  Gharihparwar  !  "  she  said  quietly,  with  her  best  salaam — 
and  in  the  old  Pathan  house  they  had  taught  manners,  if 
nothing  else — ''Little  Fatma,  the  pen-maker's  daughter, 
says  that  Wictoria  Kaiser-i-hind  is  an  old  woman  like  me, 
and  so  I  have  fixed  my  hopes  on  her.  There  is  my  rupee. 
It  is  all  I  have,  and  I  want  my  widow's  portion." 

***** 

And  she  got  it.  It  happened  years  ago,  but  the  story 
is  worth  telling  to-day,  when  women  can  no  longer  sing 
*'God  Save  the  Queen." 


THE  LAKE   OF   HIGH   HOPE 


A  man  stood  watching  a  primrose  dawn.  There  was  a 
cloud  upon  his  face;  none  on  the  wide  expanse  of  light- 
suffused  sky  beyond  the  dim  distance  of  the  world.  At 
his  feet  lay,  stretching  far,  irregularly,  into  the  grey 
mistiness  of  morning,  a  great  sheet  of  water.  The  dawn 
showed  on  it  as  in  a  mirror,  save  where  tall  sedges  and 
reeds  sent  still-shining  shadows  over  its  level  light. 
Unutterable  peace  lay  upon  all  things.  They  seemed  still 
asleep,  though  the  new  day  had  come,  bringing  with  it 
good  and  evil,  rest  and  strife. 

And  then,  suddenly,  there  was  a  change.  The  man 
turned  swiftly  at  a  light  footstep  behind  him,  to  see  a 
woman,  and  in  an  instant  passion  leapt  up,  bringing  with 
it  joy  and  despair.    For  the  woman  was  another  man's  wife. 

But  something  in  her  face  made  him  open  his  arms  and 
take  her  close  to  his  clasp.  It  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had 
been  waiting  for  this  moment  ever  since  he  was  born. 

She  was  a  little  bit  of  a  woman,  frail  and  fair,  who  looked 
over-weighted  by  her  dark  riding  habit,  but  both  seemed 
lost  in  the  man's  hold,  as  vibrating  with  tense  emotion,  he 
stood  silent,  their  mingled  figures  forming  a  swaying 
shadow  against  that  further  light. 

"At  last,"  he  said,  in  tender  exultation,  "  at  long  last !  " 

She  threw  back  her  head  then,  and  looked  him  in  the 
eyes,  hope  and  fear,  and  joy  and  sorrow  showing  in  her  face. 

"I  couldn't  stand  it — at  the  last,"  she  almost  sobbed, 
''when  it  came  to  going  away,  and  leaving  you  here — 
alone — with   that   awful   risk — for  no   one   can    say  what 

mayn't  come — with  cholera Re" — her  voice  trembled 

over  the  small  syllable — ''started  earlier — I  am  to  meet 
him  by-and-by — so   I   came   round — just  to   see   you — and 

now "    She  buried  her  face  again,  and  the  sobs  shook 

her  gently.    He  tightened  his  hold. 

"  I'm  glad  ! "  he  replied,  in  a  hard  voice.     "  It  was  bound 

I 


130  THE   LAKE   OF    HIGH    HOPE. 

to  come  sooner  or  later— you  couldn't  go  on  for  ever— an 
angel  from  heaven  couldn't  go  on  standing— it  all.     But 

jiQ-^ "  his  voice  changed — ''now  you  and  I "he  broke 

off  and  raised  his  head  to  listen. 

It  was  a  wild  weird  cry,  that  echoed  and  re-echoed  over 
the  wide  stretches  of  water,  that  rose  in  one  long  con- 
tinuous melodious  wail  from  every  reed  bed,  every  thicket 
of  sedge,  every  tuft  of  low  lamarisk  and  bent-rush;  for  it 
was  the  dawn-cry  of  the  myriad  wild  fowl  which  haunted 
this  low-lying  jheel  of  Northern  India,  and  swift  as  thought, 
with  a  thunderous  whirr  of  wide  wrings,  the  birds,  teal  and 
mallard  and  widgeon,  white  eye,  pochard,  and  green  shank, 
purple  heron  and  white,  rose  in  ones,  in  twos,  in  threes,  in 
flocks,  in  companies,  in  serried  battalions. 

The  primrose  dawn  was  half  effaced,  the  coming  day 
was  darkened  by  wheeling,  veering,  eddying  flight,  and  the 
peace  vanished  in  the  strife  of  wings. 

"  By  George !  what  a  shot,"  cried  the  man  excitedly, 
even  passion  forgotten  as  a  trail  of  whistling  teal  swooped 
past,  unconscious  of  them,  to  settle  on  the  still  water,  then, 
recognising  unlooked  for  humanity,  veered  at  sharp  angle 
to  rise  again  into  the  troubled  air. 

But  the  woman  clung  closer.  To  her  the  interruption 
was  terrible.  The  soaring  birds  brought  home  to  her  what 
she  had  done,  and  before  that  knowledge  compelling 
emotion  stopped  abruptly. 

It  is  very  foolish  of  me,"  she  murmured  brokenly, 
and  very  wrong — though  I  don't  know ! — I  don't  know  ! 
It  was  your  danger — and  I  was  so  tired — besides  it — it  need 
make  no  difference." 

"No  difference?"  he  echoed,  in  joyous,  incredulous 
exultation.  "Why,  of  course,  it  makes  all  the  difference 
in  the  world,  little  woman !  You  and  I  can  never  go  back 
again,  now  !  We  can  never  pretend  again  that  we  don't 
care  !  No  !  when  this  cholera  camp  is  over,  and  I  have  time, 
we  must  think  over  what  is  to  be  done — but  it's  final.  Yes ! 
it's  final,  my  darling,  my  darling!" 

His  kisses  rained  on  her  face,  his  heart  encompassed  her. 
So  they  stood  for  a  w  hile,  oblivious  of  the  wheeling,  veering. 


THE   LAKE   OF  HIGH   HOPE  131 

eddying  wings  above  them,  oblivious  of  all  things  save  that 
they  V7€re  lovers,  and  that  they  knew  it. 

Then  she  left  him.  ''  He  "  would  be  wondering  why  she 
was  so  late ;  but  Suleimau,  the  Arab  pony,  would  soon  carry 
her  over  the  sandy  plain. 

The  man  remained  watching  the  slight  figure  on  the 
bounding  grey  till  it  was  lost  m  the  "  azure  silk  of  morning.'' 
Then  he  returned  slowly  to  the  jheel  again,  lost  in  thought. 
There  was  a  good  deal  whereof  to  think,  for  she  was  a 
mother ;  by  ill  luck  the  mother  of  girls.  Why  had  she  worn 
those  tiny  presentments  of  their  sweet  baby  faces  in  the 
double  heart  brooch  which  fastened  her  folded  tie?  She 
had  not  thought,  of  course;  but  it  had  somehow  come 
between  him  and  his  kisses  after  he  had  noticed  it. 

Well !  it  was  unfortunate ;  but  that  sort  of  thing  had  to 
be  faced,  and  he  would  face  it  after  he  had  seen  his  cholera 
camp  through ;  for  he  was  a  doctor,  and  the  thought  of  what 
might  lie  before  him  was  with  him  as  a  background  to  all 
others.  He  had  chosen  a  good  place  for  the  camp,  yonder 
among  the  low  sandhills,  which  were  the  highest  point  in  all 
the  desert  plain,  and,  if  that  did  not  kill  the  germ,  they 
could  move  on. 

Meanwhile He  drew  a  long  breath  and  looked  out 

over  the  water.  The  primrose  dawn  had  passed  to  amber, 
the  amber  was  beginning  to  flame,  the  whirring  wings  had 
carried  the  birds  to  distant  feeding  grounds,  only  a  flock  of 
egrets  remained  fishing  solemnly  in  a  distant  shallow. 

'*The  Huzoor  is  looking  for  God's  birds,"  said  a  cour- 
teous voice  beside  him.  "They  have  gone,  likely,  to  the 
Lake  of  High  Hope,  for  it  nears  the  time  of  transit  to  a 
Higher  Land." 

The  speaker  was  an  old  man  seated  so  close  to  the  water 
that  his  feet  and  legs  were  hidden  by  it.  He  had  a  simple, 
pleasant  face,  which  over-thinness  had  refined  almost  to 
austerity. 

The  doctor  took  stock  of  him  quietly.  His  speech  pro- 
claimed him  a  down  country  man,  his  lack  of  any  garment 
save  a  strip  of  saffron  cloth  around  his  loins  suggested 
asceticism,  but  his  smile  was  at  once  familiar  and  kindly. 

I  9 


132  THE  LAKE  OF  HIGH  HOPE 

"Manasa  Sarovara?"  replied  the  Englishman,  care- 
lessly, ''  is  that  v/hat  you  mean?  I  am  told  the  birds  really 
do  go  there  during  the  hot  weather.  I  wonder  if  it  is  true. 
I  should  like  to  see  it."  He  spoke  half  to  himself,  for  he 
was  somewhat  of  an  ornothologist  and  the  tale  of  the 
great  West  Tibetan  Lake  of  Refuge  for  God's  dear  birds— 
that  lake  far  from  the  haunts  of  men  amid  the  eternal  snow 
and  ice,  into  which  so  many  streams  flow,  out  of  which 
come  none — had  caught  his  fancy. 

''The  Huzoor  can  go  when  he  chooses,"  remarked  the 
old  man  placidly;  ''but  he  must  leave  many  things  behind 
him  first;  the  mem  sahiha,  for  instance." 

The  doctor  felt  himself  flush  up  to  the  very  roots  of  his 
hair,  and  his  first  instinct  was  to  fall  upon  the  evident 
eavesdropper.  Consideration  natheless  condemning  this 
course,  he  tried  cool  indifference. 

"You  have  been  here  some  time,  I  perceive,"  he  said 
calmly. 

"I  have  been  all  the  time  behind  the  shivala,"  acquiesced 
the  other,  with  beautiful  frankness,  as  he  pointed  to  a  large 
black  upright  stone  set  on  end  by  the  water.  "  The  Huzoor 
was — was  too  much  occupied  to  observe  this  slave." 

"So  that  is  a  shivala,  is  it?"  interpolated  the  English- 
man hurriedly;  "it  doesn't  look  much  like  a  temple." 
"We  pilgrims  call  it  so,  Huzoor,   and  we  worship  it." 
"  Then  you  are  a  pilgrim— whither  ?  " 
"To    the    Lake    of    High    Hope,    Huzoor,"    came    the 
answer,  and  there  was  a  tinge  of  sadness  in  the  tone.     "I 
have  been  going  thither  these  twenty  years  past,  but  my 
feet  are  against  me.     God  made  them  crooked." 

He  drew  them  out  of  the  water  as  he  spoke,  and  the 
doctor's  professional  eye  recognised  a  rare  deformity; 
recognised  also  that  they  were  unconceivably  blistered  and 
worn. 

"You  will  not  get  to  Manasa  Sarovara  on  those,"  he 
said  kindly;  "they  need  rest,  not  travel." 

The  old  man  shook  his  head,  and  a  trace  of  hurry  crept 
into  his  voice.  "I  give  them  such  rest  as  I  can,  Huzoor. 
That  is  why  I  sat  with  them  in  heaven's  healing  water; 
but  I  must  get  to  Manasa  Sarovara,  or  my  pilgrimage  will 


THE  LAKE   OF   HIGH   HOPE  133 

be  lost — and  it  is  not  for  my  own  soul,  see  you."  Then  h© 
smiled  brilliantly.  ''And  this  slave  will  reach  it,  Huzoor. 
Shiv's  angels  tell  me  so." 

'^Shiv's  angels?"  queried  the  doctor. 

''The  birds  yonder,  Huzoor,"  replied  the  old  man 
gravely,  pointing  to  the  flock  of  fishing  egrets.  "  Some 
call  them  rice  birds,  and  others  egrets,  but  they  come  from 
Shiv's  Paradise — one  can  tell  that  by  their  plumes — 
perhaps  that  is  why  the  mems  are  so  fond  of  wearing  them." 

A  sudden  memory  of  her  face  as  he  had  first  seen  it 
beneath  a  snowy  aigrette  of  such  plumes  assailed  the 
doctor's  mind;  but  it  brought  a  vague  dissatisfaction. 
'^  Herodias  alba,"  he  muttered  to  himself,  giving  the  Latin 
name  of  the  bird,  ''more  likely  to  have  something  to  do 
with  dancing  away  a  man's  head  !  "  Then  a  vague  remorse 
at  the  harshness  of  his  thought  made  him  say  curiously: 
"And  why  must  I  leave  the  mem  behind  if  I  want  to  reach 
the  Lake  of  High  Hope  1  " 

"Because  she  is  a  mother,  Huzoor,"  came  the  un- 
expected reply,  followed  by  deprecating  explanation. 
"This  slave  has  good  eyes — he  saw  the  childs'  faces  on 
her  breast." 

Once  again  the  doctor  felt  that  unaccustomed  thrill 
along  the  roots  of  his  hair.  "What  right  had  this  old  man 
to  see — everything  1 — and  to  preach  at  him  1  A  sudden 
antagonism  leapt  up  in  him  against  all  rules,  all  limitations. 

"  Well !  I  don't  mean  to  leave  her  behind,  I  can  tell  you," 
he  said  almost  petulantly.  "When  a  man  has  found 
Paradise " 

"Shiv's  Paradise  is  close  to  the  Lake  of  High  Hope," 
interrupted  the  suave  old  voice. 

"D— n  Shiv's  Paradise!"  cried  the  doctor;  then  he 
laughed.  "It's  no  use,  brahman-;c(?,  for  I  suppose  you  are 
a  brahman.  I'm  not  going  to  be  stopped  by  snow  or  ice. 
Look  here," — his  mood  changed  abruptly  to  quick 
masterful  protest — "that  would  be  to  give  up  happiness. 
Now !  what  makes  you  happy  1  Holiness,  I  expect,  being 
a  pilgrim !  high  caste  !  one  of  the  elect !  Give  that  all  up, 
brahman-j?>e — and — and  I'll  think  about  it.  And  if  you'll 
come  over  there,"  he  pointed  to  the  low  sandhills  as  he 


134  TPIE   LAKE   OF  HIGH   HOPE 

spoke,  *Hhis  evening.  I'll  give  you  an  ointment  for  those 
blistered  feet  of  yours — ^you'll  never  get  to  Manasa  Sarovara 
otherwise,  you  know." 

''I  shall  get  there  some  time,  Huzoor,"  came  the 
confident  reply. 

Perhaps  the  old  man  came;  perhaps  he  did  not.  The 
doctor  was  far  too  busy  to  care,  since  before  daylight  failed 
he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  the  tightest  corner  of 
his  life.  The  promise  of  the  primrose  dawn  passed  before 
noon.  Heavy  rain  clouds  massed  themselves  into  a  purple 
pall,  dull,  lowering,  silent,  until,  with  the  close  of  day, 
the  courage  of  the  coming  storm  rose  in  low  mutterings. 

And  then,  at  last,  the  rain  fell — fell  in  torrents.  It 
found  the  regiment — ^^seeking  safety  from  the  scourge  of 
cholera — on  the  march,  and  disorganised  it  utterly.  With 
baggage  waggons  bogged,  soldiers  already  discouraged  by 
dread,  all  drenched  and  disordered,  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done  but  keep  cool  and  trust  that  chance  might  avert 
disaster,  since  no  man  could  hurry  up  tents  that  were  miles 
behind. 

''There's  another  man  in  G  company  down,  sir,"  said 
the  hospital  sergeant,  ''  and  the  apothecary  reports  no  more 
room  in  his  ward." 

''There's  room  here,"  replied  the  doctor,  setting  his 
teeth.  "Orderly!  put  a  blanket  in  that  corner  and  lift 
Smith  to  it — he's  getting  better — he'll  do  all  right." 

So  yet  one  more  man  found  a  cot  and  such  comfort  as 
skill  and  strength  of  purpose  could  give  him,  while  the 
thunder  crashed  overhead  and  the  pitiless  rain  hammered 
at  the  taut  tent  roof  like  a  drum.  One  had  to  shout  to 
make  oneself  heard. 

"Lights!  I  say,  lights!  I've  been  calling  for  them 
these  ten  minutes.  Why  the  devil  doesn't  someone 
bring  themi    I  can't  see  to  do  anything." 

The  doctor's  voice  rang  resonantly;  but  the  lights  did 
not  come.  The  waggon  with  the  petroleum  tins  was  hope- 
lessly bogged  miles  away,  and  in  the  confusion  no  one  had 
thought  of  lights. 

"Thank  God  for  the  lightning,"  muttered  the  doctor 
with  unwonted  piety,  as  with  awful  blinding  suddenness  the 


THE   LAKE   OF   HIGH   HOPE  135 

whole  hospital  tent  blazed  into  blue  brilliance,  putting  out 
the  miserable  glimmer  of  the  oil  lantern  that  had  been 
raised  from  somewhere.  In  that  brief  luminous  second  he 
could  at  least  see  his  patients — thirty  of  them  or  more.  It 
was  not  an  encouraging  sight.  The  livid  look  on  many 
faces  might  be  discounted  by  the  lightning,  but  there  was 
an  ominous  stillness  in  some  that  told  its  tale. 

''Gone!  Brijig  in  another  man  from  outside,"  came 
the  sw^ift  verdict  and  order  after  a  moment's  inspection 
with  the  oil  lantern. 

*'Beg  pardin',  sir,"  alniost  whined  a  hospital  orderly 
"but  Apothecary  Jones  has  sent  to  say  he's  took  himself, 
an'  can't  go  on  no  more;  an'  beggin'  your  pardin,  sir,  I'm 
feeling  awful  bad  myself." 

The  doctor  held  up  the  lantern,  and  its  buU's  eye  showed 
a  face  as  livid  as  any  in  the  tent;  a  face  distorted  by 
justifiable  horror  and  fear. 

''  Go  into  the  quarantine  tent,  it's  up  by  now,  and  tell 
them  to  give  you  a  stiff-un  of  rum  with  chlorodyne  in  it. 
You'll  be  better  by-and-by.     I've  no  use  for  you  here." 

And  he  had  no  use  for  him — that  was  true.  Shaking 
hands  and  trembling  ner^^es  were  only  in  the  way  in  a 
tight  corner  like  this.  So,  one  by  one,  men  fell  away, 
leaving  the  one  strong  soul  and  body  to  wrestle  with  a 
perfect  hell. 

For  the  rain  never  ceased,  the  thunder  went  on  crashing, 
the  lightning  was  almost  incessant.  Thank  God  for  that ! 
Thank  God  for  the  inches  of  running  water  on  the  floor  of 
the  tent  that  swept  away  its  unspeakable  uncleanlinesses, 
for  the  thunder's  voice  that  drowned  all  other  sounds,  for 
the  blessed  light  which  made  it  possible  to  work. 

The  very  sweepers  disappeared  at  last.  No  one  was 
left  save  that  one  strong  soul  and  body,  and  even  he  stood 
for  a  second,  dazed,  irresolute. 

''How  can  this  slave  help  the  Protector  of  the  Poor," 
came  a  courteous  voice  beside  him,  and  he  turned  to  see  a 
smile  at  once  familiar  and  kindly. 

"How?  "  echoed  the  doctor,  stupidly;  then  he  recovered 
himself.  "You  can't.  You're  a  brahman — high  caste — all 
that " 


136  THE   LAKE   OF  HIGH   HOPE 

*'  This  slave  has  come  to  help  the  Huzoor,  so  that  he  may 
be  able  to  reach  Manasa  Sarovara,"  was  the  quiet  insistent 
reply.     "Where  shall  he  begin?" 

A  sudden  spasm  almost  of  anger  shot  through  the  strong 
soul  and  body  as  it  realised  and  recollected,  vaguely,  dimly, 
as  rudely,  roughly,  it  gave  no  choice  save  the  most  menial 
work.  But  instant  obedience  followed,  and  the  doctor, 
dismissing  all  other  thoughts,  plunged  once  more  into  the 
immediate  present.  The  rain  pelted,  the  thunder  roared, 
but  every  time  that  blue  brilliance  filled  the  tent,  it  showed 
two  men  at  work,  both  doing  their  duty  nobly. 

A  born  nurse !  thought  the  doctor  almost  remorsefully, 
as  he  saw  the  old  man  moving  about  swiftly  and  remem- 
bered those  blistered  and  bleeding  feet.  ''  They  must  hurt 
you — awfully,"  he  said  at  last. 

"  God's  healing  water  cools  them,  Huzoor,"  replied  the 
old  man,  with  a  radiant  smile,  "I  shall  not  be  delayed  in 
reaching  the  Lake  of  High  Hope." 

So  the  long  night  drew  down  to  dawn  once  more,  and 
dawn  brought  peace  again,  even  to  the  cholera  camp.  An 
hour  and  a  half  passed  without  a  fresh  case,  and  the 
doctor,  realising  that  the  crisis  was  over,  found  time  to 
notice  the  grey  glimmer  of  light  stealing  through  each  crack 
and  cranny  of  the  tent.  He  set  the  flap  aside  and  looked 
out.  The  primrose  east  was  all  barred  wdth  purple  clouds, 
the  distant  jheel  lay  in  still  shiny  shadow,  but  there  was  no 
concerted  dawn  cry  of  the  wild  birds,  and  the  flights  of 
whirring  wings  were  isolated,  errant. 

"  The  call  has  come  to  them,  Huzoor,"  said  the  suave 
old  voice  beside  him.  ''They  have  gone  to  Manasa 
Sarovara,  leaving  all  things  behind  them." 

The  Englishman  turned  abruptly,  almost  with  an  oath, 
and  began  to  count  the  costs  of  the  night.  Thirty-six  dead 
bodies  awaiting  burial ;  but  no  more — no  more  ! 

With  the  mysterious  inconsequence  of  cholera,  the  scourge 
had  come,  and  gone.  Seen  in  the  first  level  rays  of  the 
6un,  the  camp  looked  almost  cheerful,  almost  bright.  A 
couple  of  doctors  had  ridden  out  from  headquarters — there 
was  no  more  to  be  done. 

"I'll  go  out  for  a  bit,  and  shake  off  the  hell  I've  been 


THE   LAKE   OF   HIGH   HOPE  137 

in  all  night,"  said  the  doctor  to  the  chief  apothecary,  who 
was  recounting  his  past  symptoms  with  suspicious  accuracy. 
So  he  went  out  and  wandered  round  the  jheel,  watching  a 
flock  of  egrets — Herodias  aZ&a— that  still  lingered  in  its  level 
waters.  Were  they  really  Shiv's  angels  1 — or  did  they  dance 
away  men's  brains 1 

The  sun  was  already  high  when  he  returned  to  camp, 
looking  worn  and  tired.  The  hospital  orderly  whom  he  had 
sent  to  bed  with  rum  and  chlorodyne  w^as  standing,  spruce 
and  alert,  at  the  canteen. 

''Feeling  better,  eh,  Green?"  he  said  kindly,  as  he 
passed,  then  added:  ''All  right,  I  suppose.  No  more  cases 
or  deaths?" 

"No,  sir,"  replied  the  orderly,  saluting  somewhat 
shamefacedly.  "Leastways,  not  to  count.  There's  a  h'ole 
man  as  they  found  dead  outside  the  camp  about  quarter  of 
an  hour  agone,  but  not  being  on  the  strength  of  the  regi- 
ment, 'e  don't  count." 

Five  minutes  afterwards  the  doctor,  his  face  still  more 
tired  and  worn,  was  looking  down  on  the  body  of  his 
helper.  It  must  have  been  one  of  those  sudden  cases  in 
which  collapse  comes  on  from  the  very  first,  for  no  one 
had  seen  the  old  man  ill.  They  had  simply  found  him 
lying  peacefully  dead  with  his  blistered  deformed  feet  in 
a  pool  of  water. 

*  ♦  *  *  * 

The  doctor  wrote  a  letter;  it  was  rather  a  wild  letter 
about  plumes  and  egrets  and  the  difficulty  of  distinguishing 
Herodias  alba  from  the  stork  which  brought  babies.  For 
the  strain  of  that  night  in  hell,  and  the  subsequent  fever 
brought  on  by  wandering  about  the  jheel  land  when  he  was 
outwearied  had  told  even  upon  his  body  and  soul. 

So  they  sent  him  to  the  hills  when  he  began  to  recover, 
and  being  a  keen  sportsman  he  did  not  stop  in  the  Capuas 
of  smart  society,  but  made  straight  for  the  solitudes,  seeking 
for  something  to  slay ;  for  he  felt  a  bit  savage  sometimes. 
And  ever,  though  he  did  not  acknowledge  the  fact,  his 
route  brought  him  nearer  and  nearer  to  that  high  Tibetan 
land  where  ice  and  snow  reign  eternal.     Through  Garhwal 


138  THE   LAKE   OF   HIGH   HOPE 

and  up  by  Kidarnath  where  the  new  born  Ganges  issues 
from  a  frost-bound  cave,  until  one  day  he  pitched  his  little 
six-foot  hunter's  tent  on  the  other  side  of  the  Holy 
Himalaya  and  looked  down  into  the  wide  upland  valleys 
of  Naki-khorsum  and  up  beyond  them  to  the  great  white 
cone  of  Kaiiasa,  the  Paradise  of  Shiva. 

A  mere  iceberg  cutting  the  clear  blue  sky.  How  cold, 
how  distant,  how  utterly  unsatisfactory  !  He  stood  looking 
at  it  in  the  chill  moonlight  after  his  two  servants  were 
snoring  round  the  juniper  fire  on  their  beds  of  jimiper 
boughs — looking,  and  smoking,  and  thinking. 

He  had  thought  much  during  his  three  months  of  solitary 
wandering,  and  now  the  time  was  coming  when  thoughts 
must  be  translated  into  action,  for  his  leave  was  nearly  up. 
Should  he  go  backv/ards  or  forwards'?  Go  on  to  Manasa 
Sarovara,  or  set  his  face  towards  lower  levels?  Should 
Hope  of  the  mind  take  the  place  of  Hope  of  the  bodyl 
Bah  !  he  was  a  fool !  He  would  be  a  sensible  man  and 
return.  That  was  his  last  thought  as  he  rolled  himself  in 
his  hunter's  blanket  and  lay  down  to  sleep. 

But  the  dawn  found  him  plodding  on  in  front  of  his  two 
coolies  towards  that  compelling  cone  of  snov^.  He  left  the 
tent  at  the  foot  of  the  next  ridge,  and  that  night  the  last 
thing  he  saw  was  Orion's  Sword  resting  upon  the  summit 
of  Mount  Kailasa. 

Yes !  he  would  go  on.  He  v/ould  see  if  it  were  true 
that  Herodias  alba  disported  its  plumes  on  the  waters  of  the 
Lake  of  High  Hope. 

During  the  latter  part  of  his  wanderings  he  had,  partly 
owing  to  the  unsettled  and  hesitating  state  of  his  mind, 
diverged  from  the  pilgrim  track ;  but  here,  on  this  last  day, 
he  rejoined  it,  and  in  more  than  one  place  the  bones  of 
someone  who  had  fallen  by  the  way,  showed  amongst  the 
flowers  which  carpeted  every  rent  in  the  world's  white 
shroud  of  snow;  showed  like  streaks  of  snow  itself,  so 
bleached  were  they  by  long  months  of  frost. 

But  the  flowers !  what  countless  thousands  of  them — 
low,  almost  leafless,  hurrying  in  hot  haste  to  blossom  while 
they  yet  had  time.  And  yet  how  pure,  how  cold,  how 
colourless  had  not  this  mountain-side   looked   from   afar. 


THE  LAKE  OF   HIGH  HOPE  139 

Almost  as  cold  as  Kailasa,  which,  viewed  from  the  height 
of  the  pass,  seemed  barely  more  significant. 

But  every  foot  of  descent  made  a  difference,  and  soon 
over  the  rocky  ravine  it  rose  stupendous,  its  great  glacier 
fihiny  cold,  inaccessible.  Before  long  it  would  overtop  the 
sky  and  reach  High  Heaven.  No  wonder  men  thought  of 
Paradise ! 

Down  and  down,  through  a  mere  cleft  in  the  rocks  that 
closed  in,  shutting  out  all  view.  .  .  . 

Then,  suddenly,  he  gave  a  little  gasp  and  stood  still. 
So   that  was  the    Lake   of   the    Soul's   Hope— Manasa 
Sarovara  !    The  pure  beauty  of  it  sank  into  him,  its  rest  and 
peace  filled  him  with  content. 

A  wilderness  — a  perfect  wilderness  of  bright-hued 
flowers  between  the  snow  slopes  and  the  lake  whose  blue 
waters  gleamed  like  sapphires  between  the  diamond  ice- 
bergs that  drifted  hither  and  thither  on  its  breeze-kissed 
waves. 

But  not  one  sign  of  life ;  no  movement,  no  noise,  save 
every  now  and  again  a  far-distant  thunderous  roar,  and  a 
puff  of  distant  white  smoke  upon  some  mountain-side  telling 
of  a  falling  avalanche. 

Cradled  in  snow,  yet  wreathed  in  flowers ;  solemn,  secure, 
unchangeable  ! 

It  was  a  marvellous  sight.  He  was  glad  he  had  come, 
for  it  was  a  place  where  one  could  think — really  think. 

So  he  stood  and  thought— really— for  a  while ;  and  then 
he  took  out  his  watch.  Time  was  waning,  for  he  had  to 
re-climb  the  pass  and  rejoin  his  tent  ere  sundown.  Still 
there  was  enough  left  for  him  to  reach  that  jutting  flower- 
set  promontory,  whence,  surely  the  best  view  of  the  whole 
would  be  obtained. 

Yes  !  decidedly  the  best !  Shiv's  Paradise,  rising  from 
the  water's  edge,  showed  from  hence,  equal-sided,  serene, 
unassailable,  a  pure  pyramid  of  ice. 

Truly  a  sight  never  to  be  forgotten ;  a  sight  well  worth 
a  pilgrimage. 

And  then  some  swift  remembrance  made  him  glance 
downwards,  and  he  saw  before  him  the  bleached  skeleton 
of  a  man.     Something  in  the  attitude  of  it,  the  feet  hidden 


140  THE   LAKE   OF   HIGH   HOPE 

in  the  lake  made  him  stoop  curiously  to  see  what  its 
sapphire  surface  covered. 

What  was  it  1 

He  stood  looking  down  into  the  rippling  water  that 
whispered  and  whispered  to  the  flowers  ceaselessly,  for  some 
time ;  then  he  turned  and  climbed  the  hill  again. 

But,  even  if  he  had  taken  anything  with  him  to  Manasa 
Sarovara,  he  left  it  behind  him  there  beside  the  skeleton 
of  a  man  with  curiously  deformed  feet.  But  the  blisters 
had  gone. 


RETAINING   FEES 


It  is  not  always  on  rocks  and  rapids  that  the  cockle 
shell  of  human  happiness  meets  with  the  direst  shipwreck. 
Often  in  the  quietest  backwaters,  where  no  current  is, 
where  not  a  ripple  disturbs  the  still  surface,  disaster  so 
absolute,  so  overwhelming  comes,  that  the  very  tragedy 
of  it  sinks  out  of  sight  also,  unrecognised,  unrecorded. 

Such  a  backwater  was  a  little  square  of  roof  four  pair 
back,  in  a  tall  tenement  house  in  Lucknow,  where  one 
blazing  hot  day  in  June  a  buxom  woman,  with  a  yellow- 
skinned  baby  hitched  to  her  hip  outside  the  voluminous 
veil  of  dirty  crushed  calico,  which  for  the  present  was 
mostlj^  in  folds  about  her  feet,  was  haranguing  three  other 
women  who  sat  working  as  for  dear  life  in  the  hard  unyield- 
ing shadow  of  the  high  v/alls,  which  were  deemed  necessary 
even  here  to  shut  out  the  possibility  of  prying  eyes. 

"  What  you  need,  honourable  ladies,"  finished  Mussumet 
Jewuni  decisively,  ''is  a  'bannister.'" 

"A  'bannister!'"  echoed  the  eldest  of  the  three 
listeners.     "And  what  new-fangled  thing  is  that?" 

She  did  not  slacken  a  second  in  her  deft  twirling  of 
her  distaff,  neither  did  the  others,  despite  their  questioning 
eyes,  relax  their  swift  business.  Indeed,  as  they  sat  in 
the  shadows,  the  three  might  have  served  as  a  model  for 
the  Fates,  since  Khulasa  Khanum  span  ceaselessly. 
Aftaba  Khanum  wound  yarn  on  a  circling  bamboo  frame, 
and  Lateefa  Khanum  snipped  with  a  very  large  pair  of 
scissors  at  the  shirt  she  was  making;  for,  being  many  years 
younger  than  the  others,  her  eyes  were  still  fit  for  fine 
back-stitching.  Beautiful  hazel  eyes  they  were,  too  :  large, 
soft,  full  of  sunshine  and  shadow. 

Jewuni  dismissed  one  mouthful  of  betel  nut  and  began 
on  another  ere  she  replied. 

"A  'bannister'  is  a  pleader,  who,  having  been  across 
the  black  water  to  London,  knows  new  tricks  wherewith 
to  confound  the  old  ones.     'Tis  the  only  chance  for  justice, 


144  RETAINING   FEES 

ladies.  I  know  of  such  an  one,  and  could  bring  him  here 
to  receive  instruction,  and  mayhap  there  would  be  no  need 
for  the  honourable  ladies  to  answer  in  Court." 

Khulasa  Khanum's  hands  froze  in  horror;  she  glanced 
anxiously  towards  Lateefa.  ''Talk  not  like  that  before 
the  child,  woman!"  she  interrupted,  almost  fiercely.  "No 
strange  man,  as  thou  knowest,  comes  to  this  virtuous  house, 
and  no  woman  goes  out  of  it." 

Both  statements  were  absolutely  true;  these  women, 
distant  relations,  yet  bound  to  each  other  by  the  tie  of  a 
common  poverty,  a  common  wrong,  had  not  set  foot  beyond 
that  square  of  roof  for  years  and  no  men — save  those  whose 
interest  it  w^as  to  keep  them  poor— had  ever  climbed  the 
steep  stair  hole  which  showed  like  a  cavernous  shadow  in 
the  high  back  wall. 

Yet  Jewuni  Begum  laughed.  She  was  a  very  different 
stamp  of  woman.  Her  oil-beplastered  hair  narrowing  her 
forehead  beyond  even  Nature's  intention,  and  the  soap 
curls  at  her  silver  and  gold  tasselled  ears  were  of  a  fashion 
which  left  little  doubt  as  to  her  moral  character ;  but,  being 
a  bottomless  receptacle  for  the  gossip  of  the  whole  town, 
owing  to  her  husband's  position  as  a  paid  tout  at  the  Law 
Courts,  the  neighbourhood  in  general,  and  even  that 
virtuous  roof  in  particular,  had  left  inquiry  and  con- 
demnation alone  for  the  present. 

''Lo!  Khanum!"  she  giggled,  ''that  is  true  enough, 
God  knows ;  yet  what  avails  it  for  reputation  1  None. 
'Tis  a  rare  joke,  and  I  meant  not  to  tell  it  thee;  still,  'tis 
too  good  to  be  lost.  In  the  Mirza's  reply  to  the  last 
petition  sent  from  this  house  for  direct  payment  of  the 
pension  due  to  honourable  ladies,  it  is  written — my  man 
saw  it,  and  there  was  laughter  among  the  writers,  I  will  go 
bail — that  the  petitioners,  being  giddy  young  things,  given 
to  wanton  ways,  it  is  necessary  for  the  honour  of  a  princely 
family  that  they  be  held  under  restraint ;  such  money  as  is 
due  being  expended  lavishly,  aye!  and  more,  in  securing 
the  luxury  due  to  gentlewomen  of  your  estate." 

Here   she  herself  went  off  into  such   chuckles  that  the 
yellow  baby  had  to  be  shifted  higher  on  her  shaking  side. 
The  three  women  ceased  working,   and  looked  at  each 


RETAINING  FEES  145 

other  helplessly,  while  underneath  their  curiously  fair  skins 
a  flush  showed  distinctly. 

"Did  they  say  that — of  usi"  asked  Aftaba  Khanum  at 
last,  in  a  faltering  voice.  Perhaps  it  was  her  occupation 
of  winding  hanks  without  tangle  which  made  her  always 
so  keen  to  have  all  things  clear. 

''And  of  meV  echoed  Khulasa  faintly.  Her  old  face 
had  grown  very  grey,  her  hands,  though  they  had  ceased 
working,  were  no  longer  frozen ;  they  trembled  visibly. 

Only  Lateefa  sat  silent,  a  swift  yet  sullen  anger  on  her 
still  young  face. 

Jewuni  giggled  again.  ''There  was  no  distinction  of 
decency,  Khanum.  But  'tis  too  bad,  and  that  is  why  I 
spoke  of  a  '  bannister  ^  to  confound  such  old  tricks  with  new 
ones.  However,  'tis  no  business  of  mine,  only,"  she  paused 
in  her  conversation,  and,  going  beside  Lateefa,  she  lowered 
her  voice,  "there  is  no  need  for  stitching  shirts  till  shroud- 
time  comes.  There  be  other  ways,  as  I  have  told  thee 
before,  of  earning  money,  aye!  enough  even  to  pay  a 
'bannister's'  fee,  and  get  the  truth  made  known.  So,  if 
thou  preferest  to  be  as  a  hooded  falcon,  seeing  nothing  of 
the  sport  in  life,  sit  and  stitch.  If  not,  come  to  me  and 
claim  freedom — in  all  things." 

When  she  and  the  yellow  baby  had  gone,  silence  fell  on 
the  desecrated  little  square  of  virtuous  roof. 

Truly  it  was  hard  !  After  a  life-time  of  patient  pro- 
priety, long  years  of  self-denial  involving  silence  and 
seclusion  even  from  scant  justice,  to  have  all  these  virtues 
reft  from  them  in  order  that  wantonness  and  giddiness  and 
youth  might  serve  as  an  excuse  for  withholding  their  rights  ! 
That  these  rights  should  be  traversed  was  to  their 
experience  no  new  thing,  though  to  Western  ears  it  may 
seem  inconceivable  that  even  under  British  rule  it  is  the 
easiest  thing  in  the  world  to  treat  secluded  women  as  these 
three  had  been  treated.  Briefly,  for  the  male  head  of  the 
family,  as  guardian,  to  leave  them  to  starve,  while  he  made 
merry  over  their  poor  pittances  of  pensions  granted  to  them 
by  Government  in  consideration  of  their  race,  or  its  good 
services.  No  wonder,  then,  that  Khulasa  sat  helpless,  resort- 
ing for  comfort  to  the  little  rosary  she  always  carried,  that 

K 


146  RETAINING  FEES 

Aftaba's  tears  ran  silently  down  her  withered  cheeks,  or 
that  Lateefa's  sullen  anger  gave  a  dangerous  look  to  her 
still  handsome  face.  So  dangerous  that  fear  pierced 
Aftaba's  soft  self-pity  at  last,  making  her  ask  anxiously; 

"What  was  it  she  said  to  thee  privately,  Lateefa? 
Naught  worse,  surely  1 " 

The  darkening  of  the  handsome  face  was  not  all  anger 
now.     Lateefa  rose  with  a  bitter  laugh. 

''  Nay !  she  but  spoke  of  '  fees '  for  justice,  as  if  we  had 
aught  to  pay.     Yet  something  must  be  done." 

"  We  have  done  too  much  already,"  came  Khulasa's 
shaking  voice.  "If  we  had  trusted  in  the  Lord  instead  of 
sending  petitions  there  would  have  been  no  need  for  them 
to  tell  the  lie.     If  we  had  waited " 

"  Lo  !  we  had  waited,"  put  in  Aftaba,  "  and  petitions  are 
no  new  thing.  Our  fathers  made  them.  They  are  not  like 
'  bannisters  '  and  strange  men.     These " 

There  was  no  need  for  her  to  explain  what  these  were 
to  that  virtuous  roof,  for  at  the  moment  a  tentative  cough 
from  the  stair-hole  accompanied  by  the  rhythmic  squelching 
of  water  in  a  skin-bag  announced  the  daily  visitation  of 
old  Shamira,  the  hhisti,  who  had  filled  their  earthen  pots 
for  them  for  years  and  years ;  and  in  an  instant  veils  were 
hastily  drawn  close,  faces  turned  to  the  wall. 

'^  Bismillah! "  came  the  orthodox  greeting,  for  old 
Shamira  knew  all  about  the  honourable  ladies,  and  in  a 
way  loved  them,  though  he  had  never  once  seen  them  in 
all  the  long  years. 

"  Bisniillah!  irruhman,  niruheem!^'  returned  the  virtuous 
ones  decorously.  Only  Lateefa,  standing  in  the  corner,  felt 
that  there  was  but  half  a  truth  in  the  words.  God  might 
be  clement  in  the  next  world,  but  he  was  far  from  merciful 
in  this.  Yet  it  was  not  the  fault  of  the  world  itself ;  that 
was  fair  enough.  There  was  a  displaced  brick  in  the  corner 
where  she  stood,  and,  profiting  by  the  temporary  blindness 
of  her  veiled  companions,  she  did  what  she  had  done  several 
times  on  the  sly,  during  the  past  few  weeks — she  took 
advantage  of  the  brick-hole  and  tip-toe  to  gain  a  glimpse 
of  that  outside  world.  It  was  the  veriest  glimpse  indeed, 
of  purpling  shadowy  roofs  huddled  against  a  flare  of  sunset 


RETAINING   FEES  147 

sky,  but  the  dust  haze  through  which  she  saw  it  seemed  a 
golden  halo  of  transfiguration,  and  in  a  second  she  had 
made  her  choice.  She  would  pay  a  retaining  fee  for  bare 
justice  to  her  own  womanhood.  Jewuni  was  right  1  Times 
had  changed.  Why  should  she  waste  her  life  clinging  to 
old  ways  when  new  freedom  was  within  reach. 

Yet  there  was  a  startled,  half-frightened  look  both  in 
the  sunshine  and  shadow  of  her  hazel  eyes,  as  she  waited, 
face  towards  the  wall,  till  the  cool  sound  of  pouring  water 
have  ceased,  she  was  free  to  resume  her  limited  life. 
Limited,  indeed !  How  strange  those  limitations  seemed 
in  the  light  of  her  new  decision ! 

But  those  brief  minutes  of  arrest,  due  to  old  Shamira's 
entry  into  the  feminine  cosmogony,  had,  curiously  enough, 
brought  decision  to  the  other  two  women,  for,  in  truth, 
Jewuni's  story,  Jewuni's  giggle  at  the  joke,  had  been  the 
last  straw  to  their  patience,  the  final  goad  rousing  them 
to  action  of  which,  each  in  her  own  way,  they  had  been 
dreaming  for  long. 

They,  too,  felt  that  the  time  was  past  for  temporising, 
for  trimming  their  sails  to  suit  each  other's  opinions. 

So  Khulasa  Khanum's  pallid,  high-featured  face  was 
more  like  that  of  one  new-dead  than  ever,  when  Shamira 
gone,  she  returned  to  work.  And,  in  truth,  she  had  in  those 
few  seconds  died  for  ever  to  this  world  and  its  works. 

Delicate  from  her  babyhood,  saintly  from  pure  suffering, 
joy  had  had  small  part  even  in  her  desire,  and  her 
resistance  to  pain  had  been  always  half-hearted.  For  what 
was  even  the  justice  of  man  worth  in  comparison  with  the 
justice  of  God?  Naturally  enough,  then,  Jewuni's  tale  of 
the  sorry  jest  had  been  more  a  horror  to  her  than  to  either 
of  the  others,  making  her  turn  to  the  hidden  meaning  of 
her  thwarted  life  for  comfort.  Her  retaining  fee  for  justice 
should  be  paid  where  there  was  no  fear  of  a  miscarriage. 
And  in  the  meantime,  while  the  tyranny  of  life  lasted, 
she  must  work — work  to  the  end. 

For  on  her  work,  practically,  those  others  lived.  In  all 
the  town  no  hands  could  spin  a  finer  thread  than  old 
Khulasa  Khanum's.  The  very  spinning  jennies  of  Bombay 
could  not  compete  with  her  ceaseless  industry;  and  there 

K  2 


148  RETAINING  FEES 

Btill  remained  noble  folk  who  clung  to  the  spider' s-web 
muslin  of  the  old  times.  So  her  hands  twirled  faster,  more 
deftly.    The  rest  was  with  God. 

Aftaba  Khanum,  on  the  contrary,  had  decided  for  the 
world;  not,  as  Lateefa  had  done,  for  the  world  as  it  was 
in  these  latter  days,  but  for  the  world  as  it  ought  to  be, 
as  it  used  to  be.  She  had  a  very  different  strain  in  her 
from  those  other  two;  from  Khulasa  in  her  spirituality 
Lateefa  in  her  emotionality.  Aftaba,  even  when  things 
were  at  their  worst,  smiled,  consoling  herself  and  the  roof 
generally  with  some  unexpected  and  perhaps  extravagant 
scrap  of  amusement.  A  mouthful  of  pillau  concocted  out  of 
nothing  to  season  a  dry  bread  dinner,  a  ridiculous  toy  made 
out  of  rubbish,  whereat  all  laughed.  Courtier-born,  she  loved 
even  the  old  etiquettes  by  instinct,  while  her  keen  wit 
could  find  a  clue  of  an  intrigue  as  deftly  as  her  fingers  could 
disentangle  Khulasa's  cobwebs.  And,  of  all  three,  she  kept 
in  closer  touch  with  a  world  with  which  she  had  not 
quarrelled,  despite  its  injustice  towards  her.  There  was, 
indeed,  a  certain  Uncle  Chiragh  who  still  came  to  see  her, 
and  her  only,  once  or  twice  a  year.  A  blue-beard  dodderer, 
with  a  twinkling  eye,  and  a  still  mellow  voice,  who  some- 
times brought  quails  with  him,  and  spices,  so  that  Aftaba 
might  regale  him  wdth  one  of  her  best  curries ;  for  she  was 
a  great  cook. 

So  the  spur  of  Jewuni's  retailed  insult  came  as  a 
challenge  to  Aftaba' s  sense  of  propriety.  The  world  might 
be  diseased  by  novelty,  but  the  foundations  were  sure. 
She  had  been  a  fool  all  these  years  to  acquiesce  in  imper- 
sonal petitions  with  purposeless  stamps  to  them,  instead  of 
some  graceful  tribute,  after  the  older,  approved  method. 
True,  she  had  once  broached  the  subject  to  Jewuni.  She 
had  even  gone  so  far  as  to  bring  out  a  certain  faded 
brocaded  bag,  which  was  her  greatest  treasure,  and  produce 
therefrom  a  medal  or  two,  a  dozen  or  more  worn  letters. 
Quaint,  old-world  informations  to  the  reader,  that  the 
bearer,  Futteh,  or  Iman,  or  Hassan,  was  such  and  such  a 
worthy  person— a  gold-spangled  record  of  thanks  for  service 
in  the  Mutiny— the  intimation  of  one  Rissildar  Tez  Khan's 
death  in  action ;  which  latter  had  indeed  been  the  cause  of 


RETAINING   FEES  149 

Aftaba's  loneiiness.  Even  (curious  survival  of  friendly  da.ys 
gone,  never  to  return)  a  few  English  words,  in  sprawling, 
irresponsible,  boyish  handwriting,  to  say  that  the  self-same 
Tez  Khan  knew  the  whereabouts  of  every  living  creature 
fit  to  shoot  in  the  whole  countryside ! 

But  Jewuni  had  scorned  the  suggestion  of  sending  these 
to  the  bigwig  with,  say,  a  basket  of  Aftaba's  famous 
pumpkin  preserve,  since,  alas,  oranges  stuffed  with  rupees 
were  out  of  the  question.     Indeed,  she  had  said  succinctly: 

''  Keep  them  till  the  Day  of  Judgment.  The  Lord  may 
look  at  them,  the  law  will  not.  For,  see,  they  are  not  even 
stamped,  and  without  stamps  is  no  justice  possible." 

Even  then  old  Aftaba  had  felt,  with  dim  obstinacy,  that 
it  was  not  law  or  justice  she  sought :  it  was  favour  !  Favour 
such  as  the  great  had  to  give  in  a  well-ordered  world ! 

And  so  she,  in  her  turn,  came  back  to  the  limitations  of 
her  life  with  a  decision.  Uncle  Chiragh  had  told  her  but 
a  week  or  two  before — as  luck  would  have  it ! — that  the 
whole  town  was  to  be  in  an  uproar  the  very  next  day  over 
the  unveiling  of  a  statue  of  Malika  Victoria.  The  anniver- 
sary of  a  great  day  in  the  heroic  annals  of  the  Defence  of 
the  Residency — for  which,  by  the  way,  that  gold-spangled 
gratitude  had  been  given — had  been  chosen  as  fitting  for 
the  ceremonial.  The  grounds  were  to  be  lit  up,  fireworks 
let  off,  and  special  messages  sent  to  and  from  the  Queen 
herself,  while  the  statue  would  be  covered  with  offerings. 
Could  anything  be  more  opportune  for  the  decorous  pre- 
sentation of  a  retaining  fee  1 

So  next  day,  while  Lateefa  Khanum  stitched,  repenting 
not  at  all  yet,  still  with  a  flutter  of  her  heart,  and  Khul^sa 
Khanum,  with  an  odd  flutter  at  her  heart  also,  which  kept 
the  colour  even  from  her  lips,  worked  and  prayed,  x^ftdba 
used  the  privacy  of  a  tiny  kitchen  for  the  preparation  of 
other  things  than  a  scanty  dinner  of  herbs.  It  meant  the  loss 
of  her  only  silver  bangle,  sold  on  the  sly  through  the  market 
woman  who  came  every  morning.  It  was  quite  the  most 
valuable  thing  in  the  house ;  yet  there  was  but  a  farthing 
or  two  left  by  the  time  the  pumpkin  preserve,  covered  with 
silver  leaf,  lay  in  a  tinselled  rush  basket  with  the  precious 
brocaded  bag  on  the  top,  and  the  market  woman,  bribed 


160  RETAINING   FEES 

to  return  for  it  in  the  afternoon,  had  received  a  generous 
douceur  which  would  surely  ensure  its  due  delivery. 

All  this  took  time,  and  was  tiring,  to  boot;  so  it  was 
nigh  sunset  when,  after  a  sleep  which  had  taken  her  almost 
unawares  in  the  little  cook  room,  Aftaba  came  out  again 
to  the  limited  life  on  the  roof.  As  she  did  so,  the  familiar 
tentative  cough  of  Shamira  the  hhisti  on  his  rounds,  accom- 
panied by  the  squelching  of  his  v/ater-skin,  made  her  step 
back  into  the  screening  wall. 

"  Bismillah!  "  she  said,  wondering  not  to  hear  the  familiar 
greeting.  But  old  Shamira  was  staring  helplessly  at  some- 
thing he  had  never  seen  before.    It  was  old  Khulasa  Khanum. 

"  She  must  be  dead,"  he  said,  simply,  to  Aftaba's 
horrified  disbelief.     "  See  !     She  sits  with  face  unveiled." 

And  she  was  dead.  Her  retaining  fee  had  brought 
justice  swiftly.     And  Lateefa? 

Aftaba,  when  she  realised  the  emptiness  of  the  roof 
save  for  herself  and  the  dead  woman,  wondered  if  it  was 
the  sight  of  one  who  belonged  to  it  slipping  downstairs  from 
its  virtue  that,  by  its  terrible  confirmation  of  wantonness, 
had  sent  Khulasa  to  seek  to  a  higher  tribunal. 

As  for  herself ! 

That  night,  when  the  wallers  had  gone,  promising  to 
return  at  dawn,  and  she  w^as  left  really  alone  for  the  first 
time,  she  sat  wondering  what  fate  her  preserved  pumpkins 
would  bring.  And  then  she  did  something  she  had  never 
done  in  all  her  life  before.  She,  too,  used  the  hole  left  by 
the  displaced  brick  to  gain  a  glimpse  of  the  w^orld  which 
was  doing  honour  to  dead  heroes,  and  to  the  Queen  for 
whom  they  died.  As  she  did  so  the  first  rockets  rose  from 
the  unseen  Residency  to  commemorate  its  brave  defenders, 
and  set  their  stars  of  glory  in  high  heaven. 

Up  and  up,  valiantly,  higher  and  higher,  full  of  the  best 
intentions,  they  went,  typical,  so  far,  of  the  hands  that 
sent  them  on  their  mission.     And  then  ? 

Then  old  Aftaba  stepped  down  from  her  vain  vantage, 
and  creeping  back  to  where  Khulasa  lay  waiting  the  dawn, 
put  her  head  down  beside  hers  and  wept. 

For  the  stars  had  fallen,  but  the  dead  woman's  retaining 
fee  had  reached  the  Mercy  Seat. 


HIS   CHANCE 


fie  sate  biting  his  nails  viciously.  It  was  not  a  habit 
of  his,  but,  at  the  moment,  the  tangle  of  his  nineteen  years 
of  life  had  been  too  much  for  him,  and  he  sate  before  it, 
helpless  yet  resentful. 

He  was  trying  to  write  a  letter  to  his  mother,  his 
widowed  mother  far  away  over  the  black  water  in  England, 
to  tell  her  that  he  had  been  placed  under  arrest  for 
cowardice— since  that  was  what  it  came  to  in  the  end  !— 
and  yet  not  to  hurt  her,  not  to  blame  her,  whom  every  bit 
of  his  being  blamed.  Why  had  she  brought  him  up  a 
nincompoop  1  Why  had  she  been  so  afraid  of  him?— poor 
little  mother  whose  nerves  had  been  shattered  once  and 
for  all  by  her  hero  husband's  death  ere  her  child  was  born. 
Yet  that  father  had  been  brave  to  recklessness.  .  .  . 

The  boy's  head  went  down  on  his  arm.  Something  like 
a  sob  quivered  through  the  hot  air.  For  it  was  hot,  though 
the  sun  was  but  an  hour  old,  in  the  little  grass-thatched 
bungalow  which  boasted  of  but  one  room,  two  verandahs, 
and  two  corresponding  slips  of  dark  enclosed  space ;  one  a 
bathroom,  the  other  full  of  saddles,  corn,  empty  boxes— 
briefly,  the  factotum's  go-down.  The  whole  house  being 
nothing  but  a  square  mushroom  set  down  causelessly  in  a 
dusty  plain  and  guarded  by  two  whitewashed  gate-pillars, 
one  of  which  bore  the  legend,  on  a  black  board,  "  Ensign 
Hector  Clive,  1st  Pioneers." 

A  good  name,  Hector  Clive,  and  yet  the  boy's  head  was 
down  on  his  arm.     "Why  had  he  been  such  a  cursed  fool? 

A  brain-fever  bird  was  hard  at  work  in  a  far-off  sirus 
tree.  He  could  see  it  in  his  mind's  eye — green,  with  its 
red  head  held  high  among  the  powder-puff  flowers,  as  it 
gave  its  incessant  cry  with  the  regularity  of  a  coppersmith's 
hammer — for,  though  he  had  been  but  one  year  in  the 
coimtry,  he  knew  all  its  birds,  and  beasts,  and  flowers ; 
aye !  and  had  a  good  smattering  of  its  lingo  also — it  was 


154  HIS   CHANCE 

that,  partly,  which  had  made  him — what  was  it — afraid — 
or — or  cautious  1 

His  brain  was  in  such  a  whirl  he  could  not  tell  which. 
And  he  had  no  one  to  M^hom  he  could  talk;  not  a  friend 
in  the  whole  regiment,  for  he  was  shy.  That  was  why  he 
was  living  alone  in  this  cursed  shanty  where  the  centipedes 
and  snakes,  too,  sometimes  (but  he  was  not  afraid  of  them, 
or  of  any  animal,  thank  heaven),  fell  from  the  cloth  ceiling, 
and  the  sparrows  (poor  devils,  after  all  they  were  only 
making  their  nests)  dropped  straws  over  one's  letters. 
That  one  had  made  a  blot — like  a  tear-mark — or  was  it, 
indeed  .  .  .  ? 

He  cursed  again  under  his  breath,  and  a  rigid  obstinacy 
came  to  his  face. 

Like  his  name,  it  was  a  good  enough  face,  though 
curiously  young  even  for  his  young  age.  The  great  height 
of  his  forehead,  it  is  true,  took  away  from  its  breadth,  and 
the  short-sighted  blink  of  the  eyes  set  so  close  upon  the  high 
narrow  nose  prevented  their  piercing  clearness  from  being 
seen.  On  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  hair  had  scarcely 
begun  to  show  itself.  All  was  callow,  immature;  yet  the 
square  chin  showed  stiff  and  strong  enough. 

There  should,  at  least,  be  no  suspicion  of  tear  marks, 
so  he  took  a  fresh  sheet:  and  then  the  thought  struck  him. 
He  would  write  two  letters.  One  to  the  dear  little  Mother 
who  had  devoted  herself  to  him — him  only — ever  since  he 
was  born ;  the  other  to  the  woman  who  had  spoiled  him 
and  his  life,  whose  timidity  had  accentuated  his  birth- 
legacy  of  fear.  It  would  do  him  good  to  have  it  out  with 
himself  and  with  Fate— not  with  Her— no  !  never  with  Her ! 
So  this  was  what  he  wrote,  and  left  lying  on  the  table 
when  an  orderly  came  to  summon  him  to  the  Colonel : 

"  Dear  Mother, — It  has  come  at  last !  I  always 
knew  it  must  come  if  you  would  make  a  soldier  of 
me,  just  because  my  father  was  one  !  Why  didn't 
you  think?  Why  didn't  you  know?  Poor  Mother! 
I'm  sorry  to  write  all  this.  How  could  you  dream  I 
have  felt  more  or  less  of  a  coward  all  my  life,  when 
he  was  so  brave  ! 

"And  then  you  made  me  worse — you  know  you 


HIS   CHANCE  155 

did.  I  wasn't  allowed  to  risk  things  like  the  other 
boys  did ;  because  I  was  your  only  one.  Ah  !  I  don't 
blame  you,  but  it  was  rough  on  me.  I  should  have 
made  an  excellent  parson,  I  expect.  And  yet  I'll  be 
damned — this  isn't  really  for  your  eyes,  mother 
darling — if  I  can  see  what  good  I  should  have  done 
if  I  had  ordered  that  Sepoy  under  arrest  1  The  men 
wouldn't  have  obeyed  orders.  I  sav,^  murder  in  their 
eyes.  I've  seen  it  for  a  long  time,  and  I  haven't 
dared  to  say  so — haven't  dared  to  warn  those  who 
should  be  warned  for  fear  of  being  thought  a  coward 
— Isn't  that  cowardice  in  itself  1  Oh,  Mother,  Mother ! 
Well,  it  was  very  simple.  A  Sepoy  was  cheeky  over 
these  greased  cartridges ;  actually  threatened  to 
shoot  me  if  I  ordered  him  under  arrest,  and — I — you 
see  I  know  a  lot  of  their  lingo,  and  I  understand — I 
was  afraid  to  do  what  I  ought  to  have  done — chanced 
it.  Of  course  it  doesn't  read  as  bare  as  that  in  the 
Adjutant's  report — but  I  am  under  arrest.  Not  that 
it  matters.  It  must  have  come  sooner  or  later — for 
I'm  a  coward — that  is  what  I  am — a  coward.  ..." 

The  words,  still  wet,  stared  up  into  the  baggy  cloth 
ceiling,  and  the  sparrows  dropped  straws  over  them  while 
Ensign  Hector  Clive  was  being  interviewed  by  his  Colonel. 
He  sate  stolid,  acquiescing  in  every  word  of  blame ;  and 
yet  he  was  obstinate. 

''I  don't  see,  sir,  what  good  it  would  have  done,"  he 
began  drearily,  when  the  Colonel  stopped  him  with  a  high 
hand. 

"Now,  I  won't  have  a  word  of  that  sort,  Mr.  Clive," 
he  said  severely.  ''There  is  enough  of  that  silly  talk 
amongst  civilians,  and  I  won't  have  it  amongst  the  officers 
of  my  regiment.  It  is  as  good  a  regiment  as  any  in  India, 
and  I'll  stake " 

Here,  feeling  some  lack  of  dignity  in  what  he  was  about 
to  say,  he  stood  up,  and  the  lad  standing  up  also,  over- 
topped his  senior  by  many  inches.  Something  suggestive 
in  his  still  lanky  length  seemed  to  strike  the  Colonel.  ''I'll 
tell  you  what  it  is,  Clive,  you  live  too  much  alone.     You're 


156  HIS    CHANCE 

altogether  too — too — why !  I  don't  believe  you  even  had  a 
cup  of  tea  before  you  started.  There !  I  was  sure  of  it. 
Absolute  suicide  !  How  can  you  expect,  in  this  climate — 
and  with  a  Colonel's  wigging  before  you — Eeally  too 
foolish — my  wife  shall  give  you  one  now — she's  in  the 
verandah  with  the  boy — and — and,  of  course,  I  can't 
promise — but  you — you  shall  have  your  chance — if — if 
possible." 

The — lad — for  he  was  but  that — murmured  something 
unintelligible.  Perhaps  to  his  dejected  mind,  another 
chance  seemed  to  be  but  another  opportunity  of  disgracing 
himself. 

^'  How  very  shy  he  is,"  thought  the  tall  slim  woman 
who  gave  a  cup  of  tea  into  his  reluctant  hand  and  sent 
Sonnie  round  to  him  with  the  toast  and  butter.  *'I  must 
get  you  to  give  my  small  son  a  lesson,  Mr.  Clive,"  she 
said,  smiling,  trying  to  make  conversation.  "  He  was 
telling  me  all  sorts  of  dreadful  things  he  has  heard — so  he 
says — from  Budlu,  his  bearer,  and  that  he  was  frightened. 
And  I  told  him  a  soldier's  son  never  could  be  frightened 
at  anything.    Isn't  that  true  ?  '* 

Ensign  Hector  Clive  turned  deadly  pale.  The  child 
standing,  with  the  plate  of  toast  and  butter,  looked  up  at 
him  confidently,  as  children  look  always  where  they  feel 
there  is  sympathy. 

"But  you  are  flightened,  aren't  youl"  he  asked. 

There  was  an  instant's  silence ;  then  the  answer  came, 
desperately  true :  "  Yes  !  1  am — but  then  I'm  a  coward — 
that's  what  I  am — a  coward  !  " 

You  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop  in  the  pause.  Then 
something  in  the  wise,  gentle  face  of  the  Colonel's  wife 
broke  down  the  barriers. 

"Ah!  you  don't  know "  he  began;  and  so  with  a 

rush  it  all  came  out. 

The  Colonel's  wife  sate  quite  still ;  she  was  accustomed 
to  confidences,  and  even  when  they  did  not  come  voluntarily 
she  had  the  art  of  beguiling  them.  The  art  also  of  com- 
forting the  confider;  and  so  when  the  lad's  face  had  gone 
into  his  hands  with  his  last  words,  as  he  sate — ^his  elbows 
on  his  knees — the  picture  of  dejection,  she  just  rose  gently, 


HIS    CHANCE  157 

and  came  over  with  soft  step  to  where  he  was.  And  she 
laid  a  soft  hand  on  either  of  his  lank  long-fingered  ones 
and  pulled  them  apart.  So,  standing,  smiled  down  upon 
him  brilliantly — confidently. 

"I  don't  believe  itl'"'  she  said,  "I  don't  believe  a  word 
of  it !    You'll  be  brave — oh  !  so  brave,  when  your  chance 

comes.     Now,  my  dear,  dear  boy "   she  looked  at  him 

as  if  he  had  been  her  son— '"go  away  and  forget  all  this 
nonsense.  And  see  1  Come  back  at  dinner  time  and  tell 
me  before  dinner  that  you've  obeyed  orders  and  haven't 
even  thought  about  it." 

She  stood  and  waved  her  hand  at  him  as  he  rode  away 
in  the  blare  of  sunlight.  Her  voice  echoing  through  the 
hot  dry  air  reached  him  faintly  as  he  turned  out  of  her 
garden  into  the  dust  of  the  world  beyond.  ''Till  dinner- 
time— remember ! " 


Remember !  The  memory  of  those  words  came  back  to 
her  idly  as  she  sate  clasping  her  baby  to  her  breast,  while 
Sonnie,  wearied  out  with  fear,  slept  in  her  lap,  and  her 
one  disengaged  hand  busied  itself  in  fanning  a  half- 
delirious  man  who  lay  on  a  string  bed  set  in  the  close 
darkness.  Dinner  time !  Yes,  it  must  be  about  dinner 
time,  for  through  a  chink  in  the  door  you  could  see  the  sun 
flaring  to  his  death  in  the  west. 

What  had  happened^  She  shuddered  as  she  thought 
of  it.  What  had  come  first,  of  ail  the  horrors  of  that  long 
hot  May  dayl  She  could  not  piece  it  together.  All  that 
she  knew  was  that  someone  had  taken  pity  on  the  women 
and  the  children.  And  that  they  were  all  huddled  together 
in  that  one  room  waiting  till  darkness  should  give  a  chance 
of  escape ;  for  the  hut  was  built  against  an  old  ruin  through 
which  some  underground  passage  gave  upon  ground  not 
quite  so  sentry-warded  as  the  barrack  square  in  front.  She 
could  hear  the  familiar  words  of  command,  the  clank  of 
arms  as  they  changed  guard,  and  she  shuddered  again. 
Aye  !  the  women  and  children  might  be  safe,  even  if  the 
almost  hopeless  stratagem  failed;  but  what  of  the  man— 
her  husband— the  only  one,  so  far  as  she  knew,  of  all  the 


158  HIS   CHANCE 

officers  of  the  regiment  who  had  escaped  the  massacre  on 
the  parade  ground  1  How  had  he  been  saved  1  She 
scarcely  knew.  She  remembered  his  running  back  like  a 
hare — yes!  he,  the  bravest  of  men — all  bleeding  and 
fainting,  to  gasp  some  words  of  almost  hopeless  directions 
for  her  safety.  And  then  old  Iman  Khan — yes  !  it  had  been 
he — faithful  old  servant !  Why  had  she  not  remembered 
before  1  For  there  he  was,  his  bald  head  bereft  of  its 
concealing  turban,  keeping  watch  and  ward  at  the  door. 

What  a  ruffian  he  looked,  so — poor,  faithful  Iman  Khan  ! 

Hush  !  a  voice  from  outside,  a  reply  from  the  bald-headed 
watcher  within.  More  questions,  more  replies,  both  grow- 
ing in  urgency  in  appeal.  Then  a  pause  and  retreating 
footsteps, 

**  What  is  it,  Imdn  Khan?"  she  questioned  dully,  as  the 
old  man  stole  over  to  her  and  laid  his  forehead  in  the  dust. 

"What  this  slave  has  feared,  has  waited  for  all  the 
hours,"    he    whispered,     whimperingly.       ''They    know — 

Huzoor "  he  pointed  to  the  bed.     **  Or,  at  least,  they 

have  suspicion  that  a  man  is  here.  And  they  must  search — 
they  will  search — or  kill.  I  have  sent  them  to  await  the 
Huzoor's  decision." 

She  stood  up,  still  clasping  her  babe,  the  boy  slipping, 
half-asleep,  to  the  ground,  and  looked  round  at  those  other 
women — those  other  children  who  had  lost  their  all.  And 
hers  lay  here.  .  .  . 

"They  must  come,"  she  said  in  a  muffled  voice.  Then 
she  bent  over  her  husband.  "Will!"  she  whispered, 
bringing  him  back  from  confused,  half-restful  dreams,  "  the 
Sepoys  say  they  must  search — or — or  kill — them  all.  We 
will  hide  you — if  we  can." 

If  we  can  !  Was  it  possible,  she  wondered,  feeling  dead, 
dead  at  heart,  as  the  door  opened  wide,  letting  in  the 
sunlight  and  showing  a  group  of  tense  womanhood,  a  bed 
whereon,  huddled  up  asleep  or  awake,  lay  the  children 
deftly  disposed  to  hide  all  betraying  contours. 

"Huzoor!  salaam!"  said  the  tall  subahddr,  drawing 
himself  up  to  attention,  and  the  search  party  of  four 
followed  suit. 

How  long  that  minute  seemed.     How  interminable  the 


HIS   CHANCE  159 

sunlight.  Ah  !  would  no  one  shut  out  the  light,  and  why 
did  Sonnie  move  his  hand  1  .  .  . 

''Huzoor!     Salaam!" 

Oh!  God  in  heaven!  were  they  going?  Was  the  door 
closing?     Was  the  blessed  darkness  coming?  .  .  . 

It  was  utter  darkness,  as,  her  strength  giving  way,  she 
fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  bed,  burying  her  face  upon  her 
children,  her  husband. 

"Will!  Will!"  she  whispered. 

A  faint  sigh  came  from  the  watching  women.  So  Fate 
had  been  kind  to  her — her  only.  .  .  . 

One  who  had  seen  her  husband  shot  down  before  her 
very  eyes  rose  slowly,  and  taking  her  baby  from  the  bed, 
moved  away,  rocking  it  in  her  arms  almost  fiercely.  So,  in 
the  grim  intensity  of  those  first  seconds,  the  sound  of 
further  parley  at  the  door  escaped  them. 

Then,  in  the  ensuing  pause,  old  Iman  Khan's  bald  head 
was  in  the  dust  once  more,  his  voice,  scarce  audible, 
seemed  to  fill  the  room. 

"  Huzoor !  They  have  seen.  He  must  go  forth  or  they 
will  kill— all." 

The  words,  half-heard,  seemed  to  rouse  the  wounded 
man  to  his  manhood.  He  raised  himself  in  bed,  he 
staggered  to  his  feet ;  so  stood,  swaying  unsteady,  yet  still 
a  man.     ''All  right— I'll  go— Let  me  out,  quick— quick " 

But  someone  stood  between  him  and  the  door.  It  was 
Ensign  Hector  Clive.  His  face  was  pale  as  death,  his 
hands  twitched  nervously,  but  in  the  semi-darkness  his 
eyes  blazed,  his  chin  looked  square  and  set. 

"No,  sir,"  he  said  quietly,  "this  is  my  chance.  Look 
here !  I  ran  and  hid  in  the  passage-way  when  the  others — 
died  like  men— I  couldn't  help  it— perhaps  if  they  had  had 
the  chance  I  had— but  that's  nothing  !— nothing !  I  heard— 
I  understand  their  lingo.  They  don't  know  you're  here, 
sir — only  a  man — let  me  be  a  man — for  once.  It  is  my 
chance " 

His  eyes  sought  the  Colonel's  wife  in  bitter  appeal. 

Swift  as  thought  she  answered  it.  Her  hand  was  on 
her  husband's  shoulder  to  hold  him  back,  for  she  saw  in 


160  HIS    CHANCE 

a  fiash  what  others  might  not  see — a  martyrdom  of  life, 
soul  warring  with  frail  flesh,  for  this  boy. 

''Let  him  go,  Will,"  she  whispered  hoarsely.  "As  he 
says,  it  is  his  chance. '' 

There  was  a  faint  stir  amongst  the  listeners.  The 
Colonel  shook  himself  free  from  his  wife's  detaining  hand. 
The  code  of  conventional  honour  was  his,  in  all  its 
maddening  lack  of  comprehension. 

"  Stand  back,  please — and  you,  Mr.  Clive,  obey  orders — 

I — I "     He  reeled  and  would  have  fallen,  but  for  the 

bed  against  which  he  sank.  His  wife  was  on  her  knees 
beside  him. 

^'  Let  him  go.  Will.  It  is  his  chance,  give  it  him,  for 
God's  sake!" 

There  was  no  answer.  Unconsciousness  had  come  to 
bring  the  silence  which  gives  consent,  and  she  stood  up 
again,  stepped  to  the  lad  and  laid  her  lips  on  his  forehead. 

''  Thank  you,  dear — in  the  name  of  all  these — thanks  for 
a  brave  deed." 

The  blood  surged  up  to  his  face.  A  boyish  look  of  sheer 
triumph  transfigured  it  as  he  paused  for  an  instant  to  throw 
off  his  coat  and  tighten  his  v/aistband. 

"I  shall  have  my  chance,  too,"  he  cried  exultantly, 
*'  for  I  was  always  a  good  runner  at  school !  " 

Aye  !  a  good  runner,  indeed !  With  the  wild  whoop  of 
a  schoolboy  at  play,  he  was  across  the  barrack  square, 
untouched.  Once  over  that  low  wall  in  front  and  he  would 
be  in  cover.  He  rose  to  the  leap  lightly,  and  for  an  instant 
he  showed  in  all  the  pathetic  beauty  of  immature  strength, 
all  the  promise  of  what  might  lie  hidden  in  the  future, 
against  the  red  flare  of  the  sunlit  sky,  against  the  glorious 
farewell  which  is  true  herald  of  the  rising  of  another  day. 
Then  he  threw  his  arms  skywards  and  fell,  shot  through 
the  heart. 

He  had  had  his  chance  ! 


THE   FLATTERER   FOR   GAIN 


Prem  Lai,  census  enumerator,  raised  to  that  fleeting 
dignity  by  reason  of  his  being  a  "middle  fail"  student  (as 
those  who  have  at  least  gone  up  for  the  Middle  School 
examination  style  themselves  in  India),  paused  in  his 
ineffectual  attempt  to  write  with  a  fine  steel  nib  on  the 
fluttering  blue  paper  held — without  any  backing — in  his 
left  hand,  and,  all  unconsciously,  gave  the  offending  pen 
that  sidelong,  blot-scattering  flick  which  the  native  reed 
requires  when  it  will  not  drive  properly. 

Then  he  coughed  a  deprecating  cough,  and  covered  the 
previous  act — natural  enough  in  one  whose  ancestors,  being 
of  the  clerkly  caste,  had  spent  long  centuries  in  acquiring 
and  transmitting  it — by  displaying  his  Western  culture  in 
another  way. 

"Now  for  the  next  'adult'  or  'adulteress'  in  this 
house,"  he  said  pompously  in  polyglot. 

The  grammatical  correctness  of  his  genders  passed 
unchallenged  by  his  half-curious,  half-awe-stricken  audience. 
The  blue  paper,  ruled,  scheduled,  classified,  contained  an 
unknown  world  to  that  patriarchal  party  assembled  in  the 
sleepy  sunshine  which  streamed  down  on  the  roof  set — far 
above  the  city,  far  above  Western  civilisation — under  the 
sleepy  sunshiny  sky;  so  it  might  well  hold  stranger  things 
to  its  environment  than  untrustworthy  feminines. 

"There  is  the  grandfather's  father,  Chiragh  Shah, 
Huzoor,"  replied  a  man  of  about  thirty  who,  standing 
midway  between  the  real  householder  and  his  grandsons, 
had  assumed  the  responsibility  of  spokesmanship  in  virtue 
of  his  possibly  combining  old  wisdom  and  new  culture.  He 
used  the  honorific  title  "Huzoor"  not  to  Prem  Lai — whom 
he  gauged  scornfully  to  be  a  mere  schoolboy,  and  a  Hindoo 
idolater  to  boot — but  to  the  blue  paper  which  represeuted 
the  alien  rulers,  who  were  numbering  the  people  for  reasons 
best  known  to  themselves. 

L  2 


164  THE   FLATTEKEE  FOR  GAIN 

A  stir  came  from  the  door  chink  behind  which  the 
females  of  the  family  were  decorously  hiding  their  indignant 
anxiety. 

''  Yea !  let  the  old  man  go  forth,"  shrilled  a  voice  to 
which  none  in  that  household  ever  said  nay.  "He  is  past 
his  time — let  them  take  his  brains  if  they  will,  and  leave 
virtuous  women  alone.  Who  are  we,  to  be  registered  as 
common  evil  walkers  1 " 

Even  Prem  Lai  grew  humble  instantly. 

"Nay!  mother,"  he  said  apologetically,  in  unconscious 
oblivion  of  his  own  previous  classification.  "  The  Sirkar 
suggests  no  impropriety.  We  seek  but  to  know  such 
trivials  as  age — sex — if  idiot,  cripple,  spinster,  adult  or 
adult " 

"Let  Chiragh  Shah  go  forth  to  him,"  interrupted  the 
hidden  oracle  with  opportune  decision.  "Lo!  his  midday 
opium  is  still  in  his  brain.  Let  it  bring  peace  to  him  and 
the  eater  thereof." 

The  chink  v/idened  obediently,  disclosing  a  fluttering 
and  scattering  of  dim  draperies.  So,  roused  evidently 
from  a  doze  in  the  inner  darkness,  a  veiy  old  man  shuffled 
out  into  the  sunshine,  then  stopped,  blinking  at  it  as  if, 
verily,  he  found  himself  in  some  new  and  unfamiliar  world. 

"  The  Sirkar  hath  sent  for  thee,  grandad,"  bawled  the 
appointed  spokesman  in  his  ear.     "  They  need " 

But  the  words  were  enough.  The  blank,  dazed  look 
passed  into  a  sudden  alacrity  which  took  years  from  the 
old  body  as  it  sat  it  a-trembling  with  eagerness. 

"The  Sirkar,"  he  echoed.     "It  is  long  since  I,  Chiragh 

Shah — long    since "     He    relapsed    as    suddenly    into 

dreams.  His  voice  failed  as  if  following  the  suit  of 
memory,  but  he  supplied  the  lack  of  both  by  a  smile  which 
spoke  volumes. 

For  it  was  the  smile  of  a  sycophant  as  unblushingly  false 
as  the  teeth  which  it  displayed — teeth  which  were  square, 
dicelike  blocks  of  ivory,  unvarying  in  size,  strung  together 
c'l  a  bold  gold  wire,  and  hung — Heaven  knows  how — ^to  his 
tooihless  gums. 

"Sit  down,  meedn-jee,^'  said  the  census  enumerator, 
politely,    for    the    heart-whole    artificiality    of    the    smile 


THE   FLATTERER  FOR   GAIN  165 

admitted  of  no  breach  of  manners.  "We  seek  but 
honourable  names  and  ages.'^ 

So  they  brought  the  old  man  a  quaint  red  lacquered 
stool,  which  had  once  carried  a  certain  dignity  in  its 
spindled  back  rail  by  reason  of  its  having  come  into  the 
family  with  some  far  dead  and  gone  bride — Chiragh  Shah's 
own,  mayhap  ! — and  there  he  sate,  still  with  that  look  of 
urbane  smiling  alacrity  rejuvenating  his  wrinkled  face. 

There  was  a  hint,  beneath  the  semi-transparency  of  his 
frayed  white  muslin  robe,  cut  in  a  bygone  fashion,  of  very 
worn,  very  old  brocade  fitting  closely  to  the  very  thin,  very 
old  body,  and  the  embroidered  cap  set  back  from  his  high, 
narrow  forehead  showed  a  glint  here  and  there  of  frayed 
old  worn  gold  thread. 

''His  name  is  Chiragh  Shah,"  yawned  the  spokesman, 
adding  in  a  bawl,  "How  old  art  thou,  dada — the  Sirkar 
is  asking? " 

There  was  a  little  pause,  and  wintry  though  the  sun  was, 
its  shine  seemed  to  filter  straight  through  all  things, 
denying  a  visible  shadow  even  to  the  blue  paper. 

"How  old?''  came  the  urbane  voice,  speaking  with  a 
long-lapsed  precision  of  polish.  "That  is  as  God  wills  and 
my  lord  chooses." 

Prem  Lai  glanced  doubtfully  at  the  schedules.  They  did 
not  provide  for  such  politeness,  so  he  appealed  mutely  to 
the  spokesman,  who  replied  by  roundabout  assertion : 

"He  was  of  knowledgeable  years  when  the  city  fell — 
wast  thou  not,  dada?"  The  explanatory  shout  brought 
keen  intelligence  to  the  hearer. 

"Aye!  it  was  from  the  palace  bastion  I  watched  the 
English.  Half  the  city  watched  them  that  14th  of  Sep- 
tember. ..."  Here  once  more  voice  and  memory  lapsed 
awhile.  But  Prem  Lai's  history  was  at  least  equal  to  the 
more  recent  event  of  that  memorable  date,  so  his  pen  grew 
glib  in  ciphering.  "  Taking  knowledgeable  age  as  ten,"  he 
commenced  rapidly,  "with  deduction  of  years  1857  from 
present  epoch  1881 " 

His  face  darkened.  "  He  has  the  appearance  of  more 
age  than  thii*ty-five,"  he  began  dubiously,  when  the  suave 
old  voice  picked  up  the  lost  thread  of  recollection. 


166  THE    FLATTERER    FOR    GAIN 

"  Lake  sahib  came  to  our  court  two  days  after,  and 
the  King,  being  blind,  saw  not  that  the  English  face  was 
no  more  merciful  than  the  French  face  which  had  been 
driven  away,  so  there  were  rejoicings." 

''lie  means  the  day  which  began  the  hundred  years  of 
tyranny,"  suggested  the  spokesman;  and  Prem  Lai's  pen 
had  already  substituted  1805  for  1857,  when  the  voice  of  her 
who  had  to  be  obeyed  came  sternly  from  the  chink.  "Put 
him  down  as  a  hundred,  boy  ! "  it  said  scornfully.  ''  Meat 
is  tough  when  the  sacrifice  is  past  its  prime,  anyhow,  so 
what  does  it  matter?  " 

The  next  question  presented  no  difficulty.  No  one^  in 
that  house  could  be  aught  but  a  descendant  of  the  Prophet, 
so  the  answer  ''Syyed"  sprang  to  every  lip  with  chill, 
almost  scornful,  pride. 

''Profession  or  trade,"  continued  Prem  Lai,  mechani- 
cally; "gold-thread  embroiderer,  I  suppose,  like  the  rest 
of  you." 

It  was  a  natural  supposition,  seeing  that  the  high-bred, 
in-bred  household  had  for  years  past — since,  in  fact,  courts 
were  abolished  in  Delhi — taken  to  this,  the  trade  of  so  many 
ousted  officials. 

"  Huzoor !  no  ! "  replied  the  spokesman  with  a  yawn, 
for  the  proceedings  were  becoming  uninteresting  to  him. 
"He  is  before  that.  He  does  nothing — he  never  did  any- 
thing." 

"  Gentleman  at  large,"  hesitated  on  Prem  Lai's  pen ; 
there  an  ephemeral  conscientiousness  born  of  his  ephemeral 
dignity  made  him  appeal  to  the  old  man  himself. 

Chiragh  Shah  smiled  courteously.  His  hands  trembled 
themselves  tip  to  tip. 

"  My  profession,"  he  echoed.  '^  Surely  I  a.m  Chaplaoo — 
of  inheritance  and  choice,"  he  adder  alertly. 

"  Chaplaoo  ! "  That  was  clear  enough  to  Prem  Lai  in 
the  vernacular,  but  how  was  it  to  be  translated  for  the  blue 
paper  which  must  be  written  in  English  as  an  exposition 
of  learning  that  might  lead  to  further  employment? 

Being  prepared  for  such  emergencies  by  a  pocket 
dictionary,  he  looked  the  word  up — a  proceeding  which 
revived  interest  in  the  audience,  notably  behind  the  chink. 


THE    FLATTERER    FOR    GAIN  167 

whence  the  magisterial  voice  was  heard  remarking  that  it 
■was  no  wonder  the  Sirkar  wanted  brains  if  it  was  so  crassly 
ignorant  as  not  to  know  what  chaplaoo  meant ! 

This  flurried  Prem  Lai  into  premature  decision. 
'^  Chaplaoo,"  he  quoted  under  his  breath,  "a.  fawner— ha  I 
I  see !  One  who  keepers  the  fawn— forester— huntsman- 
Am  I  not  right  r'  he  translated  with  a  preparative  flick 
of  the  steel  pen. 

The  even  ivory  smile  was  clouded  by  an  expression  too 
blank  for  resentment. 

'^The  Sirkar  mistakes.     This  slave  kept  no  animals." 
Prem    Lai    dived    hurriedly    into    further    equivalents. 
"  Parasite — backbiter — one  who  bites  backs  !    Ah  !  I  see — 
bug — etc." 

''  This  slave,  as  he  has  said,  kept  no  kind  of  animals 
whatever,"  repeated  Chiragh  Shah,  with  a  suave,  uncon- 
scious dignity  which  appeased  even  the  rising  storm  of 
virtuous  indignation  behind  the  chink.  ''He  w^as — if  the 
Sirkar  prefers  the  title— Chapar-qunatya,  by  inheritance 
and  choice." 

The  rolling  Arabic  word  had  a  soothing  sound,  ajid  a 
hush  fell  with  the  sunshine  even  on  Prem  Lai's  search  after 
a  common  factor  betw^een  East  and  West. 

''  Toad  eater !  eater  of  toads "  he  began  with  doubt 

in  the  suggestion ;  "  lick  spittle — one  who  licks  the  spittle  1  " 

"Eater  of  toads,  licker  of  spittle,"  shrilled  the  voice  of 

the  chink.    "  Dost  come  here  defiling  an  honourable  house — 

and  I  who  purvey  its  food — with  such  vile  calumny — I " 

"Peace,  mother,"  soothed  a  softer  voice;  "such  things 
do  no  harm  save  to  the  speaker.  What  you  spit  at  the 
sky  falls  on  your  ov,m  face  1 " 

"Aye!"  assented  a  ruder  voice,  "and  is  he  not  a 
Kyasth  (clerk)— lie  he  must  or  his  belly  will  burst." 

The  word  "lie"  gave  the  agitated  enumerator  a  fresh 
clue,  and  the  pages  of  the  dictionary  fluttered  as  if  in  a 
full  gale. 

"  Lie — liar — slanderer " 

There  was  no  connection  in  his  tone ;  but  the  suggestion 
being  at  least  plausible  to  his  audience,  the  question  was 


168  THE  FLATTERER  FOR  GAIN 

referred  loudly  to  old  Chiragh  Shah,  who  was  beginning  to 
nod  with  combined  sunshine  and  opium  drams. 

''Lie?"  he  asked,  with  a  return  of  that  swift  alacrity. 
"Surely,  I  lied  always.  Yea!  from  the  beginning  to  the 
end." 

He  used  the  high-sounding  Arabic  word  for  liar,  and  so 
sent  Prem  Lai  a-fluttering  once  more.  Ere  he  had  lit  on 
the  correct  gutteral,  old  Chiragh  Shah's  set  smile  had 
changed  into  a  real  one.  The  slack  muscles  of  his  neck 
.stiffened;  he  flung  out  his  right  hand  airily. 

''Hush!"  said  the  two  smallest  boys  on  the  roof  in 
sudden  interest;  "  dada  is  going  to  talk." 

He  was. 

"Lies  !"  he  began,  and  there  was  tone  in  the  old  voice, 
"  and  wherefore  not  if  it  is  a  real  lie  and  not  a  bungle  ?  But 
I  never  was  a  bungler.  I  know  my  profession  too  well — 
even  at  the  last — yea,  at  the  very  end  they  had  to  come  to 
me  for  artifice — for  subterfuge.  It  was  the  last  lie — to 
count  as  a  real  lie." 

He  paused,  one  of  the  boys  had  crept  round  to  him  and 
now  laid  a  compelling  hand  of  entreaty  on  the  old  man. 

"Tell  us  of  it,  dada." 

The  spokesman  looked  at  the  enumerator  as  if  for  orders. 

"It  may  elucidate  the  meanings,"  muttered  the  Middle- 
fail  to  himself. 

So  in  the  stillness  of  that  sunshiny  roof,  set  so  far  above 
the  workaday  world,  they  sate  listening. 

"  Yea !  it  was  the  last  lie  that  was  worth  the  telling. 
Yet  I  w^as  past  my  prime  like  the  court  itself.  For  none, 
save  those  who  saw,  knew  the  heart-burnings,  the  bitter- 
ness of  those  last  years.  King  but  in  name,  the  very  court 
officials  drifting  away  to  other  allegiance.  And  Lake  sahib 
had  been  so  full  of  promise  on  that  first  September  day, 
when  the  Frenchman  was  driven  away  because,  forsooth  ! 
he  had  made  the  blind  Shah  Alum  a  prisoner  in  his  own 

palace "     There  was  a  pause  in  the  thin  old  cadences, 

and  a  flitting  shadow  fell  on  the  sun-saturate  listeners  from 
a  wheeling  kite  overhead. 

"And  what  was  Bahadur  Shah  but  a  prisoner,  too? 
What  matter — the   Huzoors   gave   him  bread   after  their 


THE   FLATTERER  FOR   GAIN  169 

fashion  and  he  was  unfaithful  to  the  salt  of  it.  That 
was  not  well — one  must  be  loyal  even  to  a  lie !  So  after 
the  mad  midsummer  dream  of  recovered  kingship  in  the 
palace — such  a  mad  dream — we  who  dreamed  it  knew  at  the 
time  that  we  were  dreaming — came  that  second  September 
day  when  the  English  returned  to  Delhi.  We  did  not  watch 
them,  then;  we  were  hiding  in  the  tombs — Humayon's 
tomb  without  the  wall, 

''It  was  the  night  after  Hudson  sahih  lahadur  had  wiled 
away  the  King  by  fair  promises — aya !  the  Huzoor  knew  the 
trick  of  those  well — but  the  Princes  were  still  hiding — and 
many  a  better  man,  too. 

''  My  son  for  one.  He  was  wounded  to  the  death.  Ah  ! 
I  knew  it — though  the  brave  lad — he  was  the  son  of  mine 
old  age — steadied  his  breath  and  smiled  when  I  spoke  to 
him.  But  there  was  little  leisure  for  words  with  treachery 
to  right  and  treachery  to  left,  and  none  to  trust  fairly. 
For  the  world  had  changed  even  then,  and  there  were  but 
one  or  two  of  my  kind  left,  and  I  was  out  of  favour.  Too 
old  for  the  new  court — too  old  for  new  pleasures.  And 
the  young  Prince — lo  !  how  he  used  to  laugh  at  my  worn 
flatteries — had  many  pleasures — so  many  of  them  that  he 
took  some  of  them  from  other  folks'  lives;  thus  he  had 
foes.  Aye  !  but  friends,  too,  for  he  came  nearer  to  kingli- 
ness  than  his  brothers.     And  my  son  loved  him. 

''So  when  the  danger  came,  and  I  knew  by  chance  of 
the  plot  to  kill  the  Prince  as  he  slept,  and  gain  the  reward 
set  on  him  by  the  English,  I  had  no  choice.  Yet  I  dare 
trust  no  one  in  the  skulking  crowd  which  crept  about  the 
shadows  of  the  old  tomb.  In  those  days  it  was  every  one 
for  himself,  and  the  Prince  had  scant  following  at  best. 
And  he  lay  drunk  with  wine  and  women,  out  of  bravado 
partly  to  the  skulkers — in  one  of  the  half-secret  upper 
rooms.  But  I  knew  which,  and  I  remember  it  so  well. 
The  grey  spear  point  of  the  distant  Kut  showed  through 
its  open  arch. 

"And  below,  in  a  far  nook  of  the  crypt,  where  there 
was  a  secret  swinging  panel  in  the  red  sandstone  wall, 
knowm  only  to  the  old,  my  son  lay  dying. 

"He  steadied  his  breath  as  I  stooped  over  him,  and 


170  THE   FLATTERER  FOR  GAIN 

whispered  that  he  would  soon  be  fighting  for  his  Prince 
again. 

^'  *  Soon,  my  son/  I  answ^ered,  waiting  as  he  smiled. 
For  I  knew  the  silence  was  at  hand — silence  from  all  things 
save  the  breathing  that  would  only  steady  into  death. 

''We,  my  servant  and  I,  lifted  him  easily.  He  was  but 
a  lad,  though  he  would  have  grown  to  greater  stature  than 
the  Prince.  His  head  lay  so  contentedly  on  my  shoulder 
as  I  went  backward  up  the  stair,  telling  those  who  stood 
aside  to  let  us  pass,  that  he  was  better  and  craved  the 
fresher  air  of  the  roof.  '  Better  ?  Aye  !  he  is  better,  or 
soon  will  be,  old  fool,'  said  one  with  a  laugh.  Then 
clattered  noisily  after  his  companions,  so  noisily  that  the 
echo  of  the  winding  staircase  sent  their  scornful  mirth 
back  to  me.  '  He  will  be  dead— like  someone  he  followed 
— by  morning.' 

''Before  morning,  if  I  did  not  fail,  thought  I,  silently, 
as,  searching  the  shadows,  we  sought  the  Prince's  hidden 
room.  There  was  a  youth  ever  with  the  Prince— a  baby- 
faced,  frightened,  womanly  thing— yet  faithful  as  far  as 
in  him  lay.  Him,  I  caught  by  the  throat.  '  They  would  kill 
thee,  too,'  I  said;  'better  take  the  chance  of  life.  If  fate 
be  kind,  ere  dawn  discovers  the  deceit,  he  will  be  fit  to  fly.' 

"  So  after  my  servant  and  I,  wailing  at  our  lack  of 
wisdom,  had  carried  the  Prince  down,  face  covered  as  one 
to  whom  worse  sickness  had  come  suddenly,  I  crept  to  the 
upper  room  again.  It  was  growing  late,  but  the  grey 
spear-head  of  the  Kut  still  showed  beyond  the  open  arch 
as  I  covered  the  lad's  face,  lest,  for  all  his  gay  dress,  the 
murderers  might  see  too  much. 

" '  Dream  thou  art  fighting  for  the  Prince,  sonling ! '  I 
said,  knowing  he  was  past  even  the  steadying  of  his  brv  th 
for  an  answer;  but  the  smile  had  lingered  on  his  face. 

"Then  I  covered  my  face  also,  and,  bidding  the  baby- 
faced  one  escape  to  the  crypt  as  soon  as  it  was  possible, 
sate  as  a  servant  might  have  sate,  at  the  turning  of  the 
ways  from  the  stair  head. 

"  Would  those  who  were  to  come  be  familiar  or  strange? 
I  wondered.     The  latter,  most  likely,  since  Cbiragh  Shah, 


THE    FLATTERER    FOR    GAIN  171 

the  Chaplaoo,  had  long  since  passed  from  court  life,  almost 
from  remembrance. 

"They  were  strange;  as  they  challenged  me,  I  drew  the 
cloth  from  my  face  without  fear. 

"'The  Prince's  room!'  they  cried,  dagger-point  at  my 
breast.  But  that  could  not  be.  There  must  be  no  sus- 
picion, only  certainty,  only  soothed  certainty.  'I  have 
been  waiting  to  show  it  to  my  lords,'  I  answered.  '  Lo  ' 
he  sleeps  sound — yea !  he  sleeps  sound,  his  face  toward 
the  Kut.' 

"  So,  with  smooth  words.  I  led  them  in  the  dark " 

The  memory  of  the  darkness  seemed  to  fall  as  darkness 
itself  on  the  old  brain,  and  Chiragh  Shah  sate  silent  in  the 
sunshine  for  a  few  seconds.  When  he  spoke  again,  it  was 
as  if  years  had  passed.  "It  was  the  last  lie  that  was  worth 
the  telling,"  he  said,  almost  triumphantly. 

"And  a  good  lie,  too,"  came  the  shrill  voice  from 
behind  the  door  chink.  "See  you,  boy  I — call  the  old  man 
by  his  right  name  in  your  paper,  or  may  God's  curse  light 
on  you  for  ever  !  " 

Thus  adjured,  Prem  Lai,  who,  throughout  the  whole 
tale,  had  been  fluttering  his  dictionary  from  one  synonym 
to  another,  suggested  sycophant ;  that  was,  he  explained, 
one  who  flatters  and  lies  for  personal  profit. 

"  Profit !  "  echoed  the  voice.  "  Small  profit  dada  gained. 
Was  not  the  Prince  killed  with  his  brothers  next  day  by 
Hudson  Sahib ;  so  there  was  no  one  left  even  to  reward  the 
old  man?" 

"Save  God,"  suggested  Prem  Lai,  piously  trying  to 
escape  somehow  from  the  dilemma. 

"And  there  is  gain,  and  gain,"  admitted  the  spokesman, 
combining  new  and  old,  east  and  west. 

"Hush  !"  said  one  of  the  two  small  boys  again;  "  dad^ 
is  going  to  talk — he  may  know " 

So  once  more  the  old  voice  rose  in  unconscious  apology 
for  the  difficulty  of  condensing  what  etomologists  call  his 
life  history  into  a  census  paper. 

"Yea,  it  was  good,  and  hard — yet  not  so  hard  as  the 
first.     That  never  left  me,  despite  the  long  years." 

It  seemed,  indeed,  as  if  it  had  not,  for  something  of 


172  THE   FLATTERER  FOR  GAIN 

childlike  complaint  came  into  the  old  voice.  "It  was  my 
j&rst  day  at  court.  Mother  had  cut  my  father's  khim-khab 
robe — crimson  with  gold  jflowering — to  fit  me,  despite  her 
tears.  Her  eyes  were  heavy  with  them  when  she  kissed 
me ;  but  I  had  no  fear  for  all  I  was  so  young.  I  knew  the 
women's  bread  depended  on  my  tongue — though  it  was  my 
heritage  also  to  be  Chaplaoo. 

"And  the  King  was  pleased.  Mother  had  tied  my 
turban  so  tall  and  he  laughed  at  that.  It  was  out  in  the 
garden,  he  under  the  gilt  csinopy,  the  nobles  round  and 
beyond  the  flowers,  and  birds  fluttering  among  the  roses. 

"And  I  was  standing  beside  the  king,  and  he  was 
laughing — for  I  knew  my  part. 

"Then  the  fluttering  came  closer,  closer,  and  lo  1  a  bird 
settled  on  my  wrist.  It  was  Gul-afrog — I  had  left  it  with 
my  sister,  but  it  had  followed  me — for  we  loved  each  other. 
So,  on  my  wrist  it  sate  joyful,  and  salaamed,  as  I  had 
taught  it,  drooping  its  pretty  wings. 

"Then  the  King  cried,  'How,  now,  whose  pretty  bird 
is  this  ? '  and  someone  laid  a  warning  hand  upon  my 
shoulder.  But  I  knew  before  what  I  must  say  if  I  was  to 
stand  in  father's  place.     I  knew  !    I  knew  ! 

"  'It  is  yours,  my  king.' 

"So  I  said,  kneeling  at  his  feet!  'It  is  yours,  it  is 
yours,'  and  Gul-afrog  had  been  with  me  since  it  fell  out 
of  the  bulbul  nest  in  the  rose  tree.  Then  they  brought  a 
golden  cage  ..."  The  old  man  sate  staring  out  into  the 
sunshine  in  silence,  and  only  the  littlest  of  the  two  boys 
wept  softly. 

"We  will  call  him  'Flatterer  for  Gain,'"  said  Prem 
Lai,  in  desperate  decision,  and  perhaps  the  description 
came  as  near  to  old  Chiragh  Shah's  profession  as  was 
possible  in  a  census  schedule. 


A   MAIDEN'S   PRAYER 


''  That  is  over  !    Thanks  to  Kali  Ma  !  "  sighed  Ramabhai, 
fanning  herself  vigorously   as  the   last  man   shambled,   a 
trifle   sheepishly,  from  the  inner  apartment.      She  was   a 
stoutish    Bengali    lady,    with    red    betel-stained    lips    and 
smooth  bandeaux  of  shiny  black  hair.     Good-looking,  good- 
natured,  at  the  moment  distinctly  excited  as  she  went  on 
garrulously.     ''Muniya!   down  with  the  curtain,   there  is 
no  further  use  for  it  now  that  crew  has  gone  !    And  to 
think  that  the  master  will  have  to  give  each  one  of  them 
five  rupees  !    And  for  what  1    Forsooth  !  for  the  first  seeing 
of  such  a  bride  as  not  one  of  them  ever  saw  before.     Lo  1 
Shibi,  marriage-monger!"     Here  she  turned  accusingly  on 
one  of  the  women  who  were  busy  unveiling  themselves, 
chattering  the  while  with  shrill  voices.     ''Hast  no  mind  at 
all?    Thou    mightst    have    found    newer    words    for    thy 
description  of  my  daughter ! — '  beautiful  as  a  full  moon, 
symmetrical  as  a  cart-wheel,  graceful  as  a  young  goose.' 
What  are  these  for  perfection?    And  thou  didst  use  the 
same  last  week  for  Luchi  Devi's  girl,  who  is  pock-marked 
and  blind  of  an  eye!    But  there!     'What's  a  fowl  to  one 
who  has  swallowed  a  sheep.'     Parbutti," — here  she  trans- 
ferred her  attentions  to  a  young  girl  who  was  seated  on  a 
cushion  resting  her  face  in  her  henna-dyed  hands,  as  if  she 
felt  dazed  or  tired — "an  thou  hast  a  grain  of  sense  have  a 
care   of   that  nose-ring  thy  paternal   auntie  lent   for   the 
occasion  or  there  will  be  flies  in  the  pease  porridge — there 
always  is  in  that  family.     Yea!  it  is  well  over;  and  thank 
the   gods,    the  priest   found   good   omen   in   the   morning 
watches,  so  I  have  not  to  dine  the  creatures.     Fish  curry 
and  kid  pillau  is  too  much  to  pile   on  the  getting  of   a 
trousseau;  yet  one  must  have  meats  at  a  wedding  feast, 
if  one  in  Sakta;  and  the  bridegroom's  folk  are  strict.     As 
for   clothes,   I   tell  you,    sisters,   that    '  boycotts '    is    well 
enough  to  play  with   every   day,   but  when  it   comes   to 


176  A  MAIDEN'S   PRAYER 

weddings  and  tinsel,  'tis  a  different  matter.  Kali  Ma! 
what  a  price  for  kulahatoon !  Parbutti !  an  thou  canst  not 
remember  that  thou  hast  on  thee  four  hundred  rupees  worth 
of  Benares  khim-Icoh,  go  put  on  the  old  Manchester.  Thank 
Heaven  !  '  Boycotts '  is  not  so  old  j^et,  but  one  has  stores 
left  to  come  and  go  upon  !  Yea !  Yea !  A  wedding  is  a 
great  strain  on  a  mother ;  and  then  there  is  the  parting  with 
my  daughter,  too  —  my  sweeting,  my  little  lump  of 
delight '' 

Here  Ramabhai  discreetly  dissolved  into  regulation 
tears,  mingled  with  sharp  sobs  and  little  outcries.  It  came 
easily,  for  she  was  really  devoted  to  Parbutti,  the  little 
bride,  who,  in  truth,  looked  distractingly  pretty,  all 
swathed  in  scarlet  gold-flowered  silk  gauze,  and  hung  with 
jewels  galore. 

Her  grave  open-eyed  face  looked,  perhaps,  a  trifle 
stupid  and  obstinate,  but  there  could  be  no  question  of 
its  beauty. 

"Mother!"  she  said  seriously,  "there  is  a  smell  of 
smoke — the  tall  one  in  the  black  coat  smelt  of  it,  and  it 
is  defilement.     Had  we  not  better  pacify  the  gods?" 

"  Hark  to  her  !  "  exclaimed  Ramabhai,  drying  her  facile 
tears  triumphantly.  "Saw  you  ever  such  a  saint?  He 
who  gets  my  Parbutti  is  certain  of  salvation." 

Parbutti  sate  silent.  She  did  not  even  blush,  though 
that  is  allowed  to  a  Bengali  bride.  But  for  all  her  outward 
calm  she  was  inwardly  quivering  all  over;  and  small 
wonder  if  she  was  !  After  long  j^ears  spent,  not  like  an 
English  girl,  in  ignorance  and  innocence  of  matrimony, 
but  in  matter-of-fact  expectation  of  it,  that  one  great  event 
in  woman's  life  was  close  at  hand.  It  had  been  delayed 
almost  beyond  propriety  by  the  difficulty  of  finding  a  high- 
caste  husband.  For  her  father,  though  a  Kulin  Brahman, 
was  sufficiently  westernised  not  to  hold  with  the  caste  habit 
of  marrying  a  daughter  to  what  may  be  called  a  professional 
husband :  that  is,  to  a  Kulin  who  already  possesses  a  score 
or  two  of  wives.  A  suitable  student  had,  however,  been 
found  at  last,  and  the  feminine  portion  of  the  household 
had  plunged  hysterically  into  all  the  suggestive  ceremonials 
of   a  high-class   Bengali  marriage.     Even  the  widows  let 


A  MAIDEN'S   PRAYER  177 

their  blighted  fancies  dwell  on  kisses  and  blisses;  so, 
feeling  vicariously  the  sensuous  pleasures  of  bridedom, 
vied  with  happier  women  in  drugging  the  girl  with  sweets 
and  scentsj  and  secret  whisperings  of  secret  delights.  The 
whole  atmosphere  was  enervating,  depraving ;  but  Parbutti 
took  all  the  gigglings  and  titterings  gravely  as  her  right. 
For  this  was  the  consummation  of  her  hopes  ever  since,  as 
a  child  of  five,  she  had  been  taught  to  worship  the  gods,  to 
pray  for  an  amorous  husband,  and  curse  any  woman  who 
might  try  to  win  love  from  her. 

'^Look!  how  the  little  marionette  scowls  over  it,"  the 
women  had  tittered  as  they  watched  her,  a  bit  of  a  naked 
baby,  going  through  the  formula  of  the  Brata,  as  it  is 
called.  ''Truly  no  co-wife  will  dare  to  enter  her  house." 
And  certainly  her  energy  was  prodigious. 

"  Mata  !     Mata  I     Ma  !     Keep  my  co-vrife  far — 

"  Shiv  !     Shiv  !     Shiv  I     Grant  she  may  not  live — 

"Pot!     Pot!     Pot!     Boil  her  hard  and  hot— 

"  Broom  !     Broom  !     Broom  !     Sweep  her  from  the  rooni— 

"  Mud  !     Mud  !     Mud  !     Moist  thee  with  her  blood— 

"Bell!     Bell!     Bell!    Ring  her  soul  to  hell— " 

and  so  on  through  every  common  and  uncommon  object  on 
God's  earth — and  beneath  it ! 

The  childish  body  had  swayed  to  the  rhythm  of  the  chant ; 
the  childish  voice  had  risen  clear  in  denunciation;  the 
childish  soul  had  given  its  consent  to  every  wish ;  for 
Parbutti  was  nothing  if  not  serious. 

The  very  cantrips  of  the  Sakta  cult  to  which  her  parents 
— and  some  fifty  millions  of  other  Bengalis — belonged,  were 
to  her  so  many  indispensable  realities. 

She,  as  an  unmarried  girl,  ate  her  plateful  of  sacrificial 
meat  contentedly,  though  her  mother  refused  it.  She  sate 
wide-eyed,  solemn,  acquiescent,  when  after  long  fasting  the 
w^hole  family  waited  in  the  dead  of  the  night  till  the 
auspicious  moment  for  sacrifice  arrived,  and  in  the  silence 
the  only  sound  was  an  occasional  piteous,  half-wondering 
bleat  of  the  miserable  victim — a  pet  goat,  mayhap  !  She 
did  not  wink  an  eye  when  the  consecrated  scimitar  curved 
downwards,  a  jet  of  red,  red  bubbling  blood  spurted  into 


178  A  MAIDEN'S   PRAYER 

the  dim  light,  and  a  sort  of  sob  from  the  dying  and  the 
living  alike  told  that  atonement  was  made. 

That  sort  of  thing  did  not  make  her  or  any  of  the  other 
women  quiver ;  yet  they  were  affectionate,  emotional,  kind- 
hearted.  ''Without  shedding  of  blood  is  no  remission  of 
sin,"  is  a  Pauline  text;  but  it  was  theirs  also.  Graven  by 
age-long  iteration  in  their  limited  minds  and  lives  was  the 
dogma  that  the  Blood  is  the  Life  thereof.  There  was  but 
one  Sacrament;  the  Sacrament  of  Blood.  Marriage  was 
secondary,  but  cognate  to  it,  of  course ;  that  was  because 
it  was  the  Gate  to  Birth  and  Death,  through  which  none 
pass  without  the  Great  Sacrifice.  So  they  clothed  the 
bride  in  scarlet,  and  smeared  her  forehead  with  vermilion. 
It  was  this  stability  of  inner  thought  which  enabled  the 
women  to  be  so  untiring  in  their  variants  of  its  outward 
application.  All  the  bathings  and  anointings  and  sooth- 
sayings  had  this  unchangeable  dogma  as  foundation.  So 
the  round  of  ritual  went  on,  the  drums  throbbed  in 
unending  rhythm,  the  conches  blared  in  deafening  yells,  the 
whole  house  was  full  of  the  rustlings  and  bustlings  of 
womenfolk.  It  must  surely  have  been  a  wedding  which 
made  Babu  Kishub  Chander  Sen  write  the  ponderous 
dictum:  ''Man  is  a  noun  in  the  objective  case,  governed  by 
the  active  verb  woman." 

Parbutti's  father,  being  a  sensible  man,  removed  himself 
as  much  as  possible  from  the  ebullient  atmosphere; 
perhaps  it  was  as  well,  since  he  was  a  light  in  the 
Nationalist  party,  and  the  ceremonials  of  a  Sakta  wedding 
do  not  go  well  with  talk  of  political  rights  and  wrongs,  of 
education,  and  equality,  and  exotic  tyranny. 

Even  Parbutti's  solemnity  was  not  quite  proof  against 
the  silly  suggestiveness,  the  almost  indecent  jokes  and 
tricks,  the  hysterical  enhancing  of  emotions  with  which  she 
v/as  surrounded. 

She  felt  it  a  relief  when,  the  guests  having  retired  for 
some  sleep,  she  was  free  to  perform  her  daily  devotion  at 
the  shrine  downstairs. 

It  was  a  quaint  place,  this  shrine  dedicated  to  Mai  Kali 
in  her  terrific  form — in  other  words,  to  Our  Lady  of  Pain — 
the  Woman  ever  in  travail  of  mind  and  body — the  Ewig 


A  MAIDEN'S   PRAYER  179 

Weiblichkeit  which  is  never  satisfied.  It  formed  on  the 
river  side  of  the  house,  a  sort  of  low  basement,  private  in 
so  far  that  a  flight  of  steep  stone  steps  led  down  to  it  from 
the  lowest  storey  of  the  house,  public  in  that  it  opened  on 
to  some  bathing  steps.  But  few  people  came  thither  except 
on  certain  festivals ;  so  Parbutti,  still  in  her  wedding  finery, 
stole  down  to  it  confidently.  She  liked  the  small,  dim, 
arched  chamber  where  you  could  only  see  Mai  Kali  as  a 
blotch  of  crimson  in  her  dark  niche.  And  as  you  crept  down 
the  stairs  behind  that  niche,  and  looked  through  the  criss- 
cross iron  bars  that  filled  up  the  arch,  ''She"  showed 
nothing  but  a  black  shadow  against  the  brilliance  beyond. 
Parbutti  used  often  to  stand  for  an  instant  or  two  on  the 
cornerwise  landing  of  the  stairs  to  look  before  passing  up. 
Everything  showed  black  but  the  low  square  of  the  outside 
doorway;  and  even  the  pigeons  when  they  flew  across  it 
seemed  flitting  shadows  on  the  light.  To-day  she  was  in  a 
hurry,  so  she  squatted  down  promptly  at  a  respectful 
distance  from  the  image,  and  began  to  smear  the  floor  from 
a  goglet  of  red  paint  she  had  brought  with  her.  And  as 
she  did  so  she  chanted : 

'  Om  !     Om  !    Kali  Ma  !— 

'  Ruler,  Thou,  of  blackest  night — 

'  Dark,   Dark,   not   a   Star — 

•  In  Thy  Heaven  Kali  Ma  !— 

'  Thou  who   lovest  the  flesh  of  man — 

'  By  this  blood  I  pray  thee  ban — 

'  Aliens  in  Hindustan — 

'  Kill  them,  Kali  Ma  !— 

'  Drink  their  blood  and  eat  their  flesh — 

'  Thou  shalt  have  it  fresh  and  fresh — 

'  Lo  !  devour  it  !  lick  thy  lips — 

'  Flesh  in  lumps  and  blood  in  sips — 

'  Stain  thyself  with  sacred  red — 

'  Make  them  lifeless,   dead  !   dead  !   dead  ! 

'  Blessed  Kali  Ma  ! 

"  Ho-o-m  !     'Phut !  " 

The  last  two  words  were  spoken  with  relish,  not  only 
because  they  were  supposed  to  be  the  most  potent  part  of 
the  charm,  but  because  they  lent  themselves  to  dramatic 
effect.  Ho-om  being  given  soft  and  low;  phut  explosively. 
The  result  being  suggestive  of  an  angry  tom-cat.  But  the 
rest  of  the  doggerel  came  slackly,  for  Parbutti  was  not 

M  2 


180  A  MAIDEN'S   PRAYER 

much  interested  in  it.  It  was  not  her  curse  at  all,  but 
one  she  had  promised  her  schoolboy  brother,  Govinda,  to 
say  every  evening.  For  many  reasons ;  chiefly,  it  is  to  be 
feared,  because  someone  else,  at  present  nameless,  was  a 
class-fellow  of  the  said  Govinda' s.  But  everyone  knew, 
that  if  there  was  one  compelling  prayer  on  earth  it  v/as 
that  of  a  maiden  bride ;  even  Mai  Kali  could  not  resist  it. 
And  the  petition  was  a  fair  one.  Who  wanted  aliens  in 
Hindustani  1  Not  she  !  Why !  their  presence  made  your 
menkind  do  unspeakable  things,  so  that  life  became  weari- 
some with  pacifying  the  gods.  Imagine  not  being  able 
to  kiss  .  .  . 

Voices  close  at  hand,  made  her  leap  to  her  feet,  and 
gain  the  staircase  like  a  frightened  hare.  Then,  of  course, 
being  a  girl,  she  paused  to  peep  through  the  grating. 

Surely  it  was  Govinda !  Then,  she  need  not  have  run 
away  !  No  !  he  had  a  tall  lad  with  him !  Parbutti's  heart 
beat  to  suffocation.  Was  it  possible?  Could  it  be?  Was 
it — well !  what  she  had  been  taught  to  consider  her  prayer, 
her  pilgrimage,  her  paradise ;  that  is,  her  duty  and  her 
pleasure  combined  1  Stay  !  there  was  another  lad — short ! 
And  yet  another — middle-sized  ! 

This  was  disconcerting;  but  perhaps  if  she  listened  a 
little  she  might  find  out.  So  she  stood  still  as  a  mouse,  all 
ears,  praying  in  her  inmost  heart  it  might  be  the  tall  one. 

Though  they  spoke  in  Bengali,  they  used  such  a  plenti- 
tude  of  English  words  that  it  was  difficult  for  her  to  under- 
stand fully  what  they  said.  It  was  not  all  their  fault,  as 
it  arose  largely  from  the  fact  that  the  ideas  they  wished 
to  express,  being  purely  Western,  had  no  Eastern  equiva- 
lents. Parbutti,  however,  had  been  accustomed  to  this 
sort  of  talk,  as  she  had  been  a  great  favourite  of  her 
father's,  and  till  the  last  year  or  so,  had  often  sate  on  his 
knee  as  he  entertained  his  friends. 

So  she  listened  patiently  to  pseans  about  Liberty, 
Equality  and  Fraternity,  mingled  with  darkling  threats- 
threats  which  must  destroy  all  three  by  depriving  some 
brother  of  the  Liberty  of  Life  or  at  best  of  an  arm  or  a  leg ! 

For  they  were  only  silly  schoolboys,  who,  but  for  an 
alien  ideal  of  education,  would  have  been  learning,  as  their 


A  MAIDEN^ S   PHAYER  181 

father  had  learnt,  unquestioning,  unquaiined  obedience  at 
a  Guru's  feet.  Learning  it  probably  with  tears,  tied  up  in 
a  sack  with  a  revengeful  tom-cat,  or  with  a  heavy  brick 
poised  on  the  back  of  the  neck  for  livelong  hours;  such 
being  the  approved  punishments  for  the  faintest  dis- 
obedience. Small  wonder  then,  if  the  organism  accustomed 
to  this  immemorial  control,  runs  a  bit  wild  when  it  finds 
itself  absolutely  free  to  do  and  think  as  it  likes. 

These  particular  boys  were  very  angry,  apparently, 
because  some  one  of  their  number  had  been  forced  to  obey 
something  or  someone.  It  was  tyranny.  The  Mother-land 
and  their  religion  was  outraged.  They  were  all  Bengali 
Brahmans ;  so  Kali  worshippers  by  birth,  and  of  the  Bakta 
cult;  possibly  of  the  Left-handed  or  Secret  form  of  that  cult. 
Anyhow  they  talked  big  of  Force  being  the  one  ruling 
principle  by  which. men  could  rule,  of  the  true  Saktas'  or 
Tantriks'  contempt  for  public  opinion,  of  their  determina- 
tion to  show  the  world  that  the  Tantras  had  been  given 
by  the  gods  in  order  to  destroy  the  oppressors  of  men.  So, 
Jai  Anarchism!  Jai  Kali!  Jai  Bhairavil  Jai  Banda 
Mater  am!  " 

It  was  a  sad  farrago  of  nonsense ;  Western  individualism 
dished  up  skilfully  by  professional  agitators  in  a  garb  of 
Eastern  mysticism;  but  they  talked  it  complacently,  while 
Parbutti,  still  as  a  mouse,  told  herself  it  must  be  the  tall 
one ;  he  had  such  a  nice  voice. 

Her  hopes  gained  confidence  when  he  lingered  behind 
with  Govinda  after  the  others  departed,  and  began  speaking 
in  a  lower  voice.  Could  he  be  talking  about  herl  Ever 
and  always  that  came  as  the  uppermost  thought.  Then 
consideration  told  her  this  was  not  possible ;  no  respectable 
bridegroom  could  talk  of  his  bride  to  another — not  even 
if  he  also  were  a  Kulin  and  a  brother.  What  was  it  then, 
about  w^hich  they  were  so  mysterious  when  there  was 
nobody  nigh  1 — ^here  a  twinge  of  compunction  shot  through 
her — at  least  nobody  they  could  know  about. 

At  last,  her  ears  becoming  accustomed  to  the  strain, 
she  caught  one  sentence:  "My  father  was  Mai  Kali's  priest 
here  "  ;  so  by  degrees  gathered  that  there  was  some  secret 


182  A  MAIDEN'S   PRAYEE 

receptacle  somewhere,  and  that  the  tall  youth  wished  to 
hide  something. 

The  something  appeared  to  be  in  what  Parbutti  had 
supposed  to  be  a  hooded  cage  such  as  students  often  carry 
about  with  their  pet  avitovats  or  fighting  quails  inside. 
But  this  one  contained  a  square  box,  which  the  boy  removed 
with  great  care,  and  then,  before  Parbutti  had  grasped 
what  he  was  doing,  he  was  round  at  the  back  of  the  carven 
image,  kneeling  with  his  back  towards  her,  and  fumbling 
at  the  gilt  wooden  drapery  about  Mai  Kali's  waist;  Govinda 
meanwhile  keeping  a  look-out  at  the  door. 

How  close  he  was !  If  she  put  out  a  hand  she  could 
touch  him— she  thrilled  all  over  at  the  thought !  Too  close 
at  any  rate  for  her  to  move ;  besides,  she  must  see  what 
happened. 

Ye  gods  !    The  drapery  slid  up  !    Mai  Kali  was  hollow  ! 

''If  aught  happens  to  me,"  said  the  nice  voice  solemnly, 
*'I  leave  this  in  thy  charge,  oh!  Govinda  Eam,  Kulin. 
Thou  art  the  only  other  living  soul  who  knows  of  it.  And 
see  thou  use  it  as  it  should  be  used.  A  cocoanut  full  for 
a  bomb.  It  requires  no  fuse.  The  concussion  is  sufficient 
if  the  hand  is  bold." 

The  box  deposited,  the  panel  slid  back  again,  and  the 
tall  lad  rising  from  his  knees  stepped  to  the  front  again. 
As  he  did  so,  Parbutti  caught  a  glimpse  of  his  face.  It 
was  beautiful  as  the  young  Bala-Krishna,  and  the  whole 
soul  and  body  of  her  went  out  to  him — her  hand  stole 
through  the  bars  to  touch  the  air  in  which  he  had  stood — 
the  happy  air  which  had  touched  him. 

So  absorbed  w^as  she  in  her  joy  that  she  did  not  realise 
what  was  going  on  until  the  sound  of  their  voices  brought 
her  back  to  reality.  Then  she  recognised  that  they  were 
repeating  the  vow  of  secrecy  w^hich  is  imposed  on  all 
initiates  to  the  Tantrik  cult.  "  I  swear  by  the  Eternal 
Relentless  and  Living  Povv-er  I  worship  never  to  divulge  the 
Secret,  but  to  bury  it  deeply  in  silence  and  ever  preserve 
it  inviolate  and  inviolable.  I  will  conceal  it  as  the  water 
in  a  cocoanut  is  concealed.  I  will  be  a  Kaula  internally,  a 
Saiva  externally,  and  a  Vaishnava  when  talking  at  public 
meetings."    Then  they  branched  off  into  that  of  the  new 


A  MAIDEN'S   PRAYEK  183 

secret  political  society  which  underlies  the  old  religious 
mysteries.  And  Parbutti  listened  with  growing  fear,  for 
this  was  sheer  straightforward  cursing  of  informers  and 
lukewarm  supporters  and  spies — and — and 

If  they  should  go  on  to  herl    If  he  should  curse  her"? 

The  long  stillness  had  told  on  her  nerves — she  felt  as 
if  she  must  scream,  must  do  something  to  prevent  the 
dreadful  sequence  going  on  and  on.  .  .  . 

"And  cursed  be  they  w^ho  listen  and " 

The  voices  were  checked  by  a  passionate  cry — 

''  Curse  me  not !  Curse  me  not !  I  swear  I  I,  Parbutti, 
swear  to  keep  faith  !  " 

Then,  terrified  at  everything,  even  her  own  temerity, 
she  turned  and  fled. 

There  was  little  leisure  allowed  her  for  thought  in  the 
women's  apartment  that  night,  for  each  one  vied  with  the 
other  in  devising  cantrips,  most  of  them  undescribable,  to 
secure  for  her  a  truly  uxorious  husband ;  but  one  thing  beat 
through  her  brain.  Would  he,  could  he — if  it  icere  he — be 
angry  with  her  1  Surely  not !  She  had  sworn,  and  she 
would  keep  her  oath.     Yes  !  she  would  keep  it  faithfully. 

So  the  day  dawned  and  another  tumult  of  rejoicing  rose 
around  her. 

In  view  of  the  delay  in  her  betrothals  it  had  been 
arranged  to  crowd  in  the  ceremonials  as  closely  as  possible, 
so  as  to  expedite  the  actual  marriage,  and  everybody  was 
running  about,  conches  w^ere  blowing,  w^omen  were  giggling 
and  laughing  as  the  professional  guests  of  the  male  sex 
cracked  doubtful  jests  while  they  awaited  the  arrival  of 
the  bridegroom. 

And  then  came  a  sudden  hush.  Something  must  have 
happened.     What  was  it  1 

Parbutti,  sitting  apart  swathed  in  her  wedding  scarlet, 
was  too  dazed  to  notice  the  pause  at  first,  until  low,  and 
whimpering,  an  unmistakable  woman's  wail  rose  amid  the 
garlands  and  tinsels,  the  paper  flowers,  the  swinging 
lanterns. 

She  started  to  her  feet^ — w^as  someone  dead? 

In  a  way,  the  news  that  had  come  was  worse  than  death. 
That  was  an  act  of  God  to  be  accepted  with  what  resigna- 


184  A  MAIDEN'S   PRAYER 

tion  could  be  mustered.  But  this  1  What !  They  had 
arrested  a  bridegroom  on  his  wedding  day  ! — and  Govinda, 
too,  the  son  of  the  house  !  What !  Those  boys — they  could 
not  be  guilty  !  It  was  only  the  tyranny  of  the  hated  police. 
They  could  not  be  mixed  up  with  Anarchists.  So  said  some 
of  the  men ;  but  others  held  their  peace  and  looked  sinister, 
while  all  the  women  wept  and  wailed,  and  called  on  Mai 
Kali  to  avenge  the  sacrilege.  Only  Parbutti  sate  very  still, 
very  silent.  She  knew  something  that  the  others  did  not 
know,  but  the  knowledge  only  increased  her  blind  resent- 
ment, only  aggravated  her  blind  despair. 

He  had  been  filched  from  her — if  it  teas  he.  She  was 
too  dulled  by  disappointment  at  first  to  do  more  than 
realise  her  loss,  and  the  thought  of  her  oath  of  fealty  did 
not  come  to  her  at  all  until  after  three  months'  needless 
delay  in  trying  the  conspiracy  case  against  some  forty 
students  in  the  college — a  delay  due  entirely  to  the  hair- 
splitting efforts  of  the  counsel  for  the  defence — Govinda 
settled  it  for  himself  by  dying  in  prison  of  autumnal  fever. 
His  had  never  been  a  good  life;  he  had  almost  died  of  it 
the  year  before ;  he  might  have  died  of  it  at  home.  But 
the  loss  of  a  son,  even  when  he  is  not  the  only  one,  is  a 
grievous  loss  to  a  Hindu  household,  and  it  brought 
enhanced  and  almost  insensate  anger  to  every  member  of 
it;  except  to  Parbutti,  who  went  about  her  household 
duties  calmly,  almost  stupidly. 

Then  came  the  final  blow.  The  bridegroom — was  it  he  1 — 
she  wondered  dully — shot  himself  with  a  revolver  smuggled 
ii]  to  him  by  a  woman,  a  young  and  pretty  woman  full  of 
patriotism  and  poetry,  a  woman  brought  up  on  Western 
lines,  who  was  almost  worshipped  by  the  Nationalist  party 
of  unrest. 

Parbutti  heard  the  tale,  still  calm  to  outward  appear- 
ance. She  heard  women's  voices,  full  of  curiosity,  tell  of 
the  deed  of  patriotism,  as  it  was  called :  she  heard  them 
wonder  what  the  woman  agitator  was  really  like,  and  say 
that  Kali  Ma  would  surely,  ere  long,  rise  up  in  Her  Power 
and  smite  the  M'llechas  hip  and  thigh. 

And  then  they  looked  at  her  and  shook  their  heads. 
Neither  maid,  wife,  nor  widow,  it  would  be  more  difficult 


A  MAIDEN'S   PRAYER  185 

than  ever  to  find  fresh  betrothals  for  her.  Whereupon 
Ramabhai  wept  as  she  had  wept  before  with  sharp  sobs 
and  little  outcries.  And  once  more  Parbutti  said  nothing, 
though  she  was  quivering  all  over.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  define  her  feelings,  they  were  such  an  admixture  of 
hatred,  and  love,  of  fear,  and  jealousy,  and  despair.  And 
through  it  all  came  the  question:  ''Was  it  he?"— while,  as 
a  background,  sheer  physical  disappointment  stretched 
every  fibre  of  her  mind  and  body  almost  to  breaking  joint. 

So  it  went  on  until  one  day  someone  spoke  to  her  almost 
as  if  she  had  been  a  widow,  and  bade  her  do  something 
almost  menial. 

She  did  it  without  a  word.  It  was  noon  time  and  the 
house  was  deserted;  those  who  were  in  it  being  asleep. 
She  sate  for  a  while  in  the  sunshine  of  the  courtyard,  her 
hands  on  her  knees,  doing  nothing.  Then  suddenly  she 
rose,  and  slipped  into  the  room  which  Ramabhai  used  as 
a  wardrobe. 

When  she  emerged  from  it  she  was  swathed  in  the 
scarlet  and  gold  Benares  hhim-hoh  that  had  cost  four  hundred 
rupees,  and  her  arms,  her  neck,  her  feet,  were  hung  with 
golden  ornaments. 

They  tinkled  as  she  made  her  way  down  the  steep  stone 
stairs  to  Kali's  shrine.  Dark,  and  still,  and  small,  it  lay, 
with  a  faint  scent  of  incense  about  it ;  for  the  previous  day 
had  been  a  festival,  and  many  folk  had  been  to  worship 
there. 

But  Kali — Mai  Kali — would  never  have  better  worship- 
ping than  Parbutti  meant  to  give  her.  How  the  idea  had 
come  to  the  girl's  mind  who  can  say;  but  dimly,  out  of  her 
confused  thoughts  had  grown  the  conviction  that  something 
must  be  done.  She  was  the  only  one,  now,  who  knew  the 
secret ;  but  it  was  useless  in  her  hands.  She  could  not  go 
out  and  throw  bombs,  as  he  doubtless  would  have  thrown 
them  had  he  Hved ;  so  giving  the  Great  Goddess  the  Blood 
for  which  she  craved.  Yes  !  he  had  meant  to  do  it,  for 
were  not  the  aliens  accursed?    Had  they  not  killed  him? 

She  mixed  everything  up  hopelessly;  Mai  Kali  and  the 
Sacrament  of  Blood,  her  own  loss  and  the  public  good ; 
she  felt  angry,  and  weary,  and  disappointed;  she  felt  that 


186  A  MAIDEN'S  PRAYER 

she  ought  to  do  something,  that  she  must  get  Someone 
stronger  than  she  was  on  her  side,  to  do  what  she  was 
helpless  to  do. 

So,  confused,  obstinate,  she  stepped  behind  the  image, 
slid  back  the  panel,  and  took  out  the  box.  Then,  pro- 
ducing a  cocoanut  shell  from  the  folds  of  her  sare^  she 
filled  it  carefully,  methodically,  and  put  back  the  box  care- 
fully, methodically. 

This  done,  she  went  to  the  front  of  the  image,  smeared 
the  floor  once  more  with  blood-red,  and  began  her  maiden's 
prayer — the  prayer  that  is  infallible  1 

"  Om  !     Om  !    Kali  Ma  !— 
"  Dark  !     Dark  !     Not  a  star — 
"In  my  Heaven,   Kali  Ma  !— " 

This  time  her  voice  was  high  and  hard,  for  had  not  Mai 
Kali  to  be  compelled — yea !  even  by  the  greatest  of 
sacrifices  ? 

"  Thou  shalt  have  it  fresh  and  fresh — 
"  Blood  to  drink,  and  lumps  of  flesh — " 

Higher  and  higher  grew  the  voice ;  it  did  not  falter  at  all : 
not  even  when  at  the  final 

"  Room  phut  " 

the  girl,  raising  her  hand  on  high,  dashed  the  cocoanut 
she  held  upon  the  ground  boldly. 

There  was  a  faint  flash,  an  instant  explosion,  a  grinding 
noise  as  the  house  rocked  to  its  foundation,  then  steadied 
into  quiescence. 

But  Parbutti  had  kept  her  promise  to  Mai  Kali,  and  to — 
liim ;  for  the  Goddess  might  have  satisfied  Her  craving 
for  Blood,  Her  desire  for  Flesh  amid  the  vrelter  of  broken 
stones  and  twisted  grids,  of  shattered  wood-carving  and 
torn  Benares  khim-kob,  of  jewels  rent  apart  and  splintered 
bones,  that  was  all  remaining  of  Her  shrine,  Her  image, 
and  Her  worshipper. 

Whether  She  will  keep  her  part  of  the  bargain  is  another 
matter. 

But  the  Maiden's  Prayer  has  been  said,  the  Greatest  of 
Sacrifices  has  been  made. 


SILVER   SPEECH   AND   GOLDEN 
SILENCE 


SILVER  SPEECH 

"It  is  not  only  the  interest  of  India — ^now  the  most  con- 
siderable part  of  the  British  Empire — but  the  credit  and 
honour  of  the  British  nation  itself,  will  be  decided  by  this 
division.  AVe  are  to  decide  by  this  judgment  whether  the 
crimes  of  individuals  are  to  be  turned  into  public  guilt  and 
national  ignominy ;  or  whether  this  nation  will  convert  the 
very  offences  which  have  thrown  a  transient  shade  upon 
its  government  into  something  that  will  reflect  a  permanent 
lustre  upon  the  honour,  justice  and  humanity  of  the  king- 
dom !  My  lords !  There  is  yet  another  consideration  equal 
to  those  other  two  great  interests  I  have  stated — those  of 
our  Empire,  of  our  national  character — something  that,  if 
possible,  comes  more  home  to  the  hearts  and  feelings  of 
every  Englishman — I  mean  the  interests  of  our  constitution 
itself,  which  is  deeply  involved  in  this  case." 

In  the  audience,  a  young  man,  fair  of  face,  blue  of  eye, 
looked  up  suddenly,  then  muttered  under  his  breath : 

"Hard  cheek!  What  the  deuce  has  he  got  to  do  with 
the  British  constitution?" 

"Do  be  quiet,  Tom!"  blushed  the  girl  who  sat  next 
him  in  a  whisper;  "they'll  hear  you." 

Tom  relapsed  into  bored  silence,  and  the  stream  of  words 
went  on — 

"But  the  crimes  we  charge  against  him  are  not  lapses, 
defects,  errors  of  common  human  frailty  which,  as  we  know 
and  feel,  we  can  allow  for.  There  are  no  crimes  that  have 
not  arisen  from  passions  which  it  is  criminal  to  harbour, 
no  offences  that  have  not  their  root  in  avarice,  rapacity, 
pride,  insolence,  ferocity,  treachery,  cruelty,  malignity  of 
temper;  in  short,  in  nothing  that  does  not  argue  a  total 


190      SILVER  SPEECH  AND  GOLDEN  SILENCE 

extinction  of  all  moral  principle,  that  does  not  manifest  an 
inveterate  blackness  of  heart  dyed  ingrain  with  malice, 
vitiated,  corrupted,  gangrened  to  the  very  core." 

^'  Confound  his  Billingsgate ! "  munnured  Tom  Gordon 
softly.     ''What  good  does  it  do — anybody^" 

''H'sh!"  came  the  warning  feminine  whisper;  "his 
accent  is  really  very  good." 

Tom  shifted  uneasily,  and  once  again  the  strenuous, 
eager  voice,  struggling  bravely  against  the  harshness  of 
the  English  language,  was  the  only  sound  held  in  the  white 
walls  of  the  Mission  School  at  Ilmpur,  a  little  Punjab  town 
set  in  a  waste  of  sand.  The  hot  sunshine  slanted  across  it 
in  broad,  golden  rays  from  the  upper  windows,  to  lay  broad, 
yellow  squares  on  the  cool  whitewash.  Through  the  doors, 
set  open  to  the  air  on  all  sides,  the  same  hot,  yellow  sun- 
shine slanted  in  on  the  upturned  faces  of  the  students,  all 
bent — with  elation  in  their  looks — on  the  prize  English 
speaker,  who  was  declaiming  his  set  speech  out  of  Burke's 
famous  impeachment  of  Warren  Hastings.  Declaiming  it 
before,  as  the  local  paper  put  it,  "Mr.  Commissioner 
Gordon  and  his  good  lady,  Mr.  Tom  Gordon,  a  fine  young 
man  worthy  of  his  great  father  who  has  lately  entered 
India  from  Eton  in  quest  of  police  post,  the  beautiful  Miss 
Gordon,  and  many  others  of  European  renown,  including 
natives  of  high  official  positions,  who  have  honoured  the 
Pieverends  Freemantle  and  Smith  with  attendance  at  their 
mission-school  prizegiving." 

They  sat  in  a  semicircle  on  the  dais.  A  quaint  company. 
Mr.  Commissioner  Gordon,  with  a  painstakingly  pious 
expression  on  his  grizzly  red-bearded  face,  inwardly 
rehearsing  the  speech  he  would  have  to  make  in  his  turn ; 
his  good  lady  nervously  eyeing  the  gilt  books  which  she 
would  have  to  give  away,  spread  out  on  the  table  before 
her.  It  was  covered  with  a  royal  red  cloth,  and  on  it 
stood  a  packed  posy  of  jasmine  blossoms  and  marigolds. 
The  odour  of  the  crushed  blossoms  mingled  with  the  con- 
fused scent  of  cocoanut  oil,  roses,  and  curry  powder  which 
is  inseparable  from  every  Indian  assembly.  On  one  side 
of  the  Commissioner  sat  the  Reverend  Freemantle,  a 
gentleman  with   a  beard  grown  white  in  the   service  of 


SILVER  SPEECH  AND  GOLDEN  SILENCE      191 

education.  Mild,  placid,  benevolent,  his  face  beamed  out 
over  his  students.  They  were  all  doing  well,  and  Gunpat- 
Rai  was  simply  excelling  himself  by  showing  complete 
mastery  over  both  vowels  and  consonants.  Indeed,  in  the 
whole  semicircle  of  eager  teachers  and  approvers  upon  the 
platform  there  was  not  to  be  seen  a  dissentient  expression ; 
and  one  ze/iana-worker  positively  wept  tears  of  joy,  because 
it  was  through  her  dreary  daily  drudgery  amongst  fetid 
alleys  and  sunless  back  courts  that  the  prize  pupil  had 
originally  come  to  the  mission-school. 

Otherwise  he  might  have  remained  as  his  father  had 
remained  all  his  life,  proprietor  of  an  odd  little  shop  right 
away  from  all  other  shops,  where  they  sold  matches  and 
oil,  flour  and  earthenware  dishes,  string  and  pipe-bowls — 
everything,  in  fact,  which  might  suddenly  be  wanted  in  the 
big,  high,  tenement  houses  that  elbowed  and  shouldered 
the  little  dark  lane. 

''The  law  is  the  security  of  the  people  of  England!  It 
is  the  security  of  the  people  of  India ! " 

Gunpat-Rai's  voice,  overtaxed,  almost  broke  over  the 
climax  of  Burke's  rhodomontade,  but  the  tumultuous, 
undisciplined  applause  which  followed,  covered  the  fact, 
and  he  sat  down  feeling  dazed,  confused.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  spoken  in  public,  and  he  had  found  that 
he  had  not  been  afraid.  That,  in  itself,  was  disturbing — 
he  had  not  felt  afraid ! 

Meanwhile,  Mr.  Commissioner  Gordon's  loud  voice  was 
bombarding  the  wall  with  fitful  explosions  of  words  which 
reverberated  amidst  an  echo  of  hesitating  stutters. 

''Gives  me  great  pleasure,  unalloyed  pleasure  to — er — 
er — er — to — to   see  Indian  youth — er — er — er — taking   their 

place   with — with — er — er — er "     Here   a   glance   at   his 

son — who,  after  the  manner  of  sons  when  their  fathers  are 
speaking,  was  burying  his  face  in  his  hands — seemed  to 
supply  the  lacking  phrase — "with  the  youth  of  England." 

"  Good  Heavens  ! "  groaned  Tom  Gordon  aside  plain- 
tively; "I  say,  Nell,  how  long  do  you  think  the  Guv'nor 
will  be  on  his  legs,  for  I'll  slope  out,  and  have  a  smoke " 

"  S-st,  Tom  !  "  reproved  his  sister  severely.  "  You  can't 
— and  you've  got  to  play  in  the  cricket  match,  you  know." 


192      SILVER  SPEECH  AND  GOLDEN  SILENCE 

Tom  groaned  again,  but  less  plaintively;  and  so  the 
speechifying  went  on,  the  burden  of  all  being  the  incal- 
culable advantage  of  a  good  sound  English  education  in 
every  walk  of  life.  Did  they  but  choose,  every  student 
present — at  any  rate,  students  of  the  stamp  of  Gunpat-Kai — 
might  ''rise  to  higher  things." 

So,  with  a  final  and  formal  hand-shake  to  the  lad  who 
had  so  distinguished  himself,  the  company  trooped  out  into 
the  sunshine  and  the  mission-school  lay  empty.  Only  in 
the  place  where  Gunpat-Rai  had  sat  ere  rising  to  speak,  a 
a  tiny  packet  wrapped  in  silver-leaf  betrayed  its  presence 
by  shining  like  a  star.  It  was  the  talisman  which  his  little 
fifteen-year-old  wife  had  given  him  that  morning  ere  he 
started,  with  tears  and  laughter,  because  it  was  only  the 
first  half-chewed,  half-sucked  piece  of  dough-cake  his  first- 
born had  ever  had.  It  had  dropped  from  his  nerveless 
hand  when,  in  a  dire  funk,  he  had  stood  up  in  answer  to 
the  call  of  his  name. 

It  did  not,  however,  shine  long,  for  an  impudent  sparrow 
soon  discovered  that  it  was  but  dough  made  silvern,  and 
promptly  carried  it  off. 

Meanwhile  the  cricket  match  was  in  full  swing,  Tom 
Gordon  captaining  one  side,  and  the  Reverend  Mr.  Free- 
mantle  (who  still  cherished  an  old  blue  cap  he  had  worn  in 
his  Oxford  days)  the  other. 

Youth,  however,  had  to  be  allowed  for,  so  the  last-comer 
from  Eton  found  himself,  to  his  great  delight,  at  the  head 
of  ten  smaller  boys— joHy  little  chaps  with  bright  eyes  and 
boundless  obediences— while  the  big  students,  including 
Gunpat-Rai— who  was  cock  at  cricket  as  in  English,  ranged 
themselves  under  their  master. 

They  won  the  toss,  and  Tom  Gordon,  as  he  suppled  his 
hands  with  the  ball,  told  himself  the  bowling  must  be  good. 

And  good  it  was,  especially  in  style.  The  tall  young 
figure  in  white  flannels,  close  clipped  about  the  lean  flanks 
with  the  light  blue  belt,  reminded  one  of  a  flying  Mercury 
as  it  poised  in  delivery.  Every  woman's  eye  was  on  it  in 
admiration.  As  for  the  swift  balls  it  sent,  they  were  a 
revelation  to  these  Indian  boys,  who  had  never  seen  real 
cricket.    They    crumpled    up    before    them,    like    agitated 


SILVER  SPEECH  AND  GOLDEN  SILENCE       193 

spiders  when  they  came  off  the  wicket,  and  when  they  came 
on  it,  they  looked  helplessly  at  the  umpire  to  see  if  they 
were  really  out.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Freemantle  made  a 
good  stand,  the  memory  of  many  a  past  day  coming  back 
to  give  half-forgotten  skill  to  his  bat,  his  sheer  delight  in 
his  youthful  adversary's  prowess  making  him  bold.  Still 
the  score  stood  ominously  at  one  figure  when  Gunpat-Rai 
took  his  place.     Tom  Gordon  hitched  up  his  belt  and  looked. 

"I  should  say  leg  before,"  he  muttered,  ''but  they're 
so  thin,  they  hardly  count." 

And  then  he  let  drive. 

Now,  whether  the  ball  chose  to  hit  Gunpat-Rai's  bat 
or  Gunpat-Rai's  bat  chose  to  hit  the  ball,  is  immaterial. 
Away  it  went  beyond  the  boundary,  and  Gunpat-Rai's  long 
legs  scored  four.  A  sharp,  hissing  roar  of  delight  rose 
from  the  assembled  school,  and  Tom  Gordon  frowned 
faintly;  but  he  was  far  too  good-humoured  to  withstand 
what  followed.  Heartened  up  by  his  absolutely  unlooked- 
for  success,  Gunpat-Rai  who,  though  his  legs  were  thin, 
was  a  powerful  enough  young  fellow,  did  everything  and 
more  than  everything  that  could  be  expected  of  him.  He 
gambolled  out  and  slogged  wildly,  he  pirouetted  like  a 
teetotum  and  nearly  killed  his  wicket-keep,  and  finally  let 
drive  at  his  partner's  wicket,  demolishing  all  three  stumps. 

"Out!"  cried  the  umpire  ruefully,  but  with  commend- 
able impartiality,  and  when  Tom  Gordon  had  sufiiciently 
recovered  from  his  laughter  to  assert  that  no  one  but  the 
stumps  had  suffered,  another  hissing  roar  of  applause  rose 
from  the  school. 

All  things,  however,  must  come  to  an  end,  and  a  skying 
block  of  Gunpat-Rai's  was  finally  caught  by  Tom  Gordon 
as  it  appeared  to  be  descending  on  his  mother's  lap.  But 
the  score  stood  at  thirty-six,  and  as  the  batsman  walked 
past  him  proudly  yet  sheepishly,  the  Eton  boy  shook  him 
by  the  hand. 

"By  George,  you  know,"  he  said,  "you'd  be  another 
Ranji.  with  practice  !  I  never  saw  such  an  innings  played — 
never ! " 

Gunpat-Rai  flushed  up  under  his  dark  skin  and  gave 
back  the  grip  with  all  the  curious,  lissome  strength  of  an 


194      SILVER  SPEECH  AND  GOLDEN  SILENCE 

Indian  hand,  in  which  the  sinews  seem  made  of  iron,  the 
bones  of  velvet. 

After  that  it  seemed  of  little  count  that  Tom  Gordon, 
who  began  the  next  innings,  should,  by  a  judicious  fore- 
sight and  the  obedience  of  his  small  boys  combined,  carry 
out  his  last  bat  as  last  man  with  a  score  of  seventy-two. 

''You  are  too  good  for  us,  Gordon,"  laughed  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Freemantle.  ''We  must  deport  him  from  the  station, 
or  request  him  not  to  play  again,  mustn't  we,  boys?" 

But  the  hissing  roar  which  followed  was  of  dissent, 
not  assent,  and  when  it  had  died  away,  Gunpat-Rai,  as 
head  of  the  school,  spoke  up,  to  his  own  surprise  again, 
fluently. 

"  Cricket,"  he  said,  "is  a  noble  game.  We  learn  every- 
thing noble  from  England.  So  are  we  pleased  to  acquire 
proficiency  at  the  hands  of  Mr.  Tom  Gordon,  Esquire." 

The  soft  dark  eyes  looked  almost  appealingly  at  the 
blue  ones. 

"All  right,"  said  their  owner,  curtly.  "I'll  come  down 
and  coach  you  a  bit,  if  you  like." 

And  he  did. 


n 

GOLDEN   SILENCE 

"Why  on  earth  can't  you  learn  to  hold  your  tongue, 
Gunpat?"  said  Tom  Gordon  roughly.  "I  thought  you  had 
more  sense  than  to  mix  yourself  up  with  those  Arya  Somajh 
agitators.  You'll  be  getting  yourself  into  trouble  some 
day!" 

The  years  had  passed  since  the  famous  innings,  making 
of  the  bowler  an  Assistant  District  Superintendent  of  Police, 
of  the  batsman  a  pleader  in  the  High  Court.  Practically 
the  balance  of  progress  was  all  in  favour  of  the  latter. 
Coming  from  the  house  of  a  miserable  merchant  whose 
monthly  earnings  barely  touched  a  living  wage  of  the 
poorest  description,  he  had  risen  far  beyond  his  birthright, 
whereas  Tom  Gordon,  on  his  pay  of  two  hundred  a  month, 


SILVER  SPEECH  AND  GOLDEN  SILENCE      195 

with  poor  promotion  before  him,  had,  if  anything,  fallen 
from  his.     But  discontent  sat  in  the  dark  eyes  and  cheerful 
acquiescence  in  the  blue  ones.     Perhaps  the  owner  of  the 
latter  was  a  better  appraiser  of  his  own  worth,  for  he  knew 
he  was  not  clever;  knew  that  though  he  was  ''jolly  good" 
at  this,  he  was  not  "jolly  good"  at  that.     Not  so  Gunpat- 
Rai.     Clever    at    school — the    cleverness    of   imitation,    of 
memory — and  gifted  w4th  a  fluency  of  words  beyond  even 
that  of  most  of  his  class,  he  had  spent  the  first  years  of 
his  young  manhood  in  waiting  for  an  appointment  which 
never  came.     How  could  it  come  when  every  school  in  India 
turns  out  dozens  of  applicants  as  capable  as  he  for  every 
Government  post  from  Cape  Comorin  to  Holy  Himalaya? 
Yet  resentment  at  this  failure  of  the  impossible  ate  into 
his  soul.     So  he  had  turned  pleader,  had  drifted  into  the 
editing  of  a  native  newspaper,  a  copy  of  which  lay  on  Tom 
Gordon's  office  table  as  he  looked  wdth  kindly  contempt  at 
the  man  who  sat  opposite  him.     For,  though  Gunpat-Rai 
had  not  turned  out  a  second  Ranji,  the  memory  of  the  old 
days  when  he  had  coached  the  Ilmpur  school  still  lingered 
with  the  Eton  boy,  and  he  had  shaken  hands  as  frankly 
as  ever  when  Gunpat-Rai  had  called  to  welcome  him  to 
his  new  district. 

''  I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,  Gunpat,"  continued  Tom  Gordon, 
**you  fellows  don't  know  what  anybody  wants  but  your- 
selves. Now,  take  this  district— it's  a  very  fair  sample." 
He  turned  over  the  leaves  of  the  last  Census  report  which 
lay  on  his  table  rapidly.  ''Hum-m-m,  here  we  are, 
Jahilabad,  population  560,000  odd— 240,000  Jat  cultivators 
of  the  soil,  35,000  Banyas,  presumably  moneylenders- 
literacy— let's  take  the  average  for  all  India  if  you  like- 
it  tells  enormously  against  my  argument,  but  it  can  stand 
it !  Now  think !  At  fifty-three  per  thousand  we  have 
twenty-nine— let's  say  30,000  men  who  can  scrawl  their 
names  and  spell  out  a  line  or  two  in  their  own 
vernacular.  How  many  of  these  are  put  out  of  court 
by  the  35,000  moneylenders  1  More  than  half.  I'll  wager. 
There  you  are,  you  educated  men,  a  negligible  minority, 
taking  India  as  a  whole.  So  why  don't  you  speak  for 
yourselves,  not  for  the  country  at  large  1    Because  you  don't 

:?  2 


196      SILVER  SPEECH  AND  GOLDEN  SILENCE 

really  mean  anything,  you  don't  know  what  you  want  your- 
selves." Tom  Gordon  paused  in  this  unusual  eloquence, 
and,  with  a  laugh,  turned  to  the  handsome  little  fellow  of 
six  whom  Gunpat-Eai  had  shown  off  with  pride  as  his 
eldest  son. 

''Jolly  little  chap,"  said  the  Assistant  Superintendent 
irrelevantly.     ''I  suppose  he's  married?" 

Gunpat-Rai  flushed  up  under  his  dark  skin  as  he  had 
done  five  years  before  at  the  cricket  match. 

*'  The  women "  he  began. 

''Oh,  I  know!"  interrupted  the  young  Englishman. 
'"'Stri  acchar,'  and  all  that.  But,  I  say,  Gunpat!  How 
the  deuce  are  you  going  to  govern  India  if  you  can't  even 
settle  your  womenkind  ?  No,  my  dear  fellow  !  I  haven't 
the  faintest  sympathy  with  you.  You  sail  pretty  near 
sedition  in  this  copy."  Here  he  laid  his  hand  on  the 
blurred,  blotched  broadsheet  which  called  itself  The  Star 
of  Hope.  "  But,  by  George  !  if  you  jib  it  the  least  bit  more, 
I  shall  have  to  run  you  in.  So  don't  be  a  fool.  You're  a 
good  sort,  Gunpat,  and  I  shall  never  forget  that  innings 
of  yours — never  !  If  you  would  only  have  stuck  to  it  instead 
of  'seeking  a  post  in  white  clothing'  you  might  have 
been " 

He  paused,  unable  to  say  what ;  and  Gunpat-Rai,  feeling 
a  like  inability,  the  conversation  ended  uncomfortably. 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  not  many  more  days  after- 
wards, Tom  Gordon  sat  once  more  in  that  curious 
atmosphere  of  cocoanut-oil  and  curry  powder  which  is 
inseparable  from  Indian  crowds,  listening  to  Gunpat-Rai's 
voice.  But  he  sat  disguised  in  one  of  the  front  benches 
of  the  crowded  hall,  so  that  he  had  to  look  far  back  more 
than  once  to  see  that  his  constables  were  all  in  evidence. 
For  a  notable  agitator  on  tour  had  stopped  at  the  little 
town ;  and  this  was  a  meeting  which  must  be  reported  upon, 
since  here  was  no  audience  composed  of  peacefully  seditious 
Bengali  clerks  and  irresponsible  students,  but  of  stalwart 
Jats,  discontented  over  some  nev/,  but  as  yet  untried, 
scheme  of  irrigation.  Now,  irrigation  stands  closer  to  the 
heart  of  a  Jat  that  does  wife  and  children.  What !  was  the 
Sirkar  to  deny  the  land  its  drink? 


SILVER  SPEECH  AND  GOLDEN  SILENCE      197 

The  other  speakers  had  been  innocuous.  Their  very 
vehemence  had  passed  by  the  slumbering  passions  of  the 
long-bearded  Jats  who  listened  to  them  with  ill-concealed 
yawns.  But  with  Gunpat-Rai  it  was  different.  At  the  first 
word  Tom  Gordon  felt  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
born  orator.  And  yet — and  yet — surely  the  words  were 
vaguely  familiar  in  their  import,  if  not  in  their  sound  1 

''The  crimes  we  charge  against  this  alien  Government 
of  India,"  came  the  liquid  Indian  voice,  "are  not  lapses, 
defects,  errors  of  common  frailty  which  we,  brethren,  as 
we  know  them  in  ourselves,  can  allow  for.  They  are  no 
crimes  that  have  not  arisen  from  evil  passions — passions 
which  it  is  criminal  to  harbour" — an  iron  mailed  stick  held 
by  a  burly  farmer  fell  with  a  clang  as  its  owner  shifted  it 
to  his  right  hand — "no  offences  that  have  not  their  root 
in  avarice,  rapacity,  pride,  insolence,  ferocity,  treachery, 

cruelty,   malignity  of   temper "     Each   epithet   seemed 

punctuated  by  a  growing  stir  amongst  the  audience.  "In 
short,  in  nothing  that  does  not  argue  a  total  extinction  of 
all  moral  principle,  that  does  not  manifest  an  inveterate 
blackness  of  heart." 

Tom  Gordon  had  it  now  !  The  Billingsgate  he  had  con- 
founded years  ago,  of  course — Burke's  Billingsgate  ! 

He  had  flung  off  his  disguise  and  leapt  to  the  dais  in  a 
second. 

"  Oh,  hold  your  jaw  1  Do,  there's  a  decent  chap  !  Don't 
go  spouting  other  folks'  abuse  ! "  he  cried. 

But  Gunpat-Rai  was  helpless  before  the  sudden  need  for 

decision.     "Dyed    ingrain    with    malice,    vitiated "    he 

went  on  mechanically. 

The  young  Assistant  Superintendent  of  Police  gave  a 
sharp  glance  behind  him.  What  he  saw  there  was  not 
reassuring.  "  Oh  !  do  shut  up !  Tell  them  the  meeting's 
over,  or  there'll  be  mischief." 

"  Corrupted,  gangrened " 

"Constables,"  came  the  order  keenly,  "clear  the  room  I 
For  Heaven's  sake,  Gunpat,  don't  get  yourself  into 
trouble  ! " 

They  were  the  last  words  Tom  Gordon  spoke.  His  hand 
slipped  from  Gunpat-Rai's  shoulder  as  he  was  struck  full 


198      SILVER  SPEECH  AND  GOLDEN  SILENCE 

en  the  bare  head  from  behind  by  an  iron-bound  staff  which 
crashed  into  his  skull. 

Even  then  the  tyranny  of  words  held  Gunpat-Rai,  though 
the  suddenness  of  the  shock  dislocated  his  sequence. 

''  Dyed  ingrain,  corrupted  to  the  very  core." 

Then  he  stood  staring  at  what  lay  before  him,  and  a 
great  silence — a  golden  silence  from  words — came  to  him 
at  last. 

He  only  broke  it  once,  when  he  was  on  trial.  The  court 
was  full  of  his  friends,  and  on  the  dais  sat  Englishmen,  so 
the  conditions  were  nearly  the  same  as  they  had  been  years 
ago  when  the  hot  sunshine  had  slanted  from  the  upper 
windows  at  Ilmpur  to  lay  broad  squares  on  the  cool  white- 
wash. 

''I  learnt  it  at  school,"  he  said  dully;  and  then  he 
began :  '^  But  the  crimes  we  charge  against  you " 

*'Hush-h!"  said  the  judge  gravely.  ''We  know  what 
you  learnt  at  school." 

But  that  did  not  lessen  the  sentence. 


THE   FOOTSTEPS   OF   A   DOG 


She  passed,  smiling  softly,  though  a  vague  trouble 
seemed  to  clutch  at  her  heart.  She  had  found  him  asleep 
so  often  of  late,  and  if  the  driver  slept,  the  oxen  might 
well  pause  in  their  task  of  drawing  water,  and  so  the  j&elds 
which  needed  it  so  much  be  deprived  for  yet  another  day 
of  their  life-giving  draught.  They  were  not,  however, 
pausing  now,  at  any  rate.  Their  slow  circling  brought  her 
sleeping  husband  to  Sarsuti's  eyes,  and  carried  him  away 
again,  wheeling  round  by  the  well  from  whose  depths  a 
stream  of  water  splashed  drowsily  into  a  wooden  trough 
and  then  hurried  away — a  little  ribbed  ribbon  of  light — 
out  of  the  shade  of  the  great  banyan  tree  into  the  sun- 
saturated  soil  beyond  where  the  young  millet  was  sprouting. 

How  cool  it  was,  after  her  hot  walk  from  the  village ! 
No  wonder  he  slept !  She  sat  nerself  down  beside  the 
runnel  of  water  where  a  jasmine  bush  threw  wild  whips 
of  leaf  and  blossom  over  the  damp  earth.  There  was  no 
need  to  wake  him  yet.  The  bullocks  would  not  pause  now 
that  she  was  there  to  make  them  do  their  work. 

That  was  her  task  in  life  ! — to  make  them  do  their  work. 

She  sighed,  and  yet  she  smiled  again,  as  the  slow-circling 
oxen  brought  her  husband  Prema  almost  to  her  feet  once 
more.  How  handsome  he  was,  his  bare  head  lying  on  the 
turban  he  had  pressed  into  the  service  of  a  pillow.  And 
his  slender  limbs !  How  ingeniously  he  had  curved  them 
on  the  forked  seat  so  as  to  gain  a  comfortable  resting-place  ! 
Trust  Prema  to  make  himself  and  everyone  else  in  the  world 
comfortable !  A  sudden  leap  of  her  heart  sent  the  blood 
to  dye  her  dark  face  still  darker,  as  she  thought  of  the 
softness,  the  warmth,  the  colour  he  had  brought  into  her 
life. 

How  long  had  they  been  married  1  Ten  years — a  whole 
ten  years,  and  there  was  never  a  child  yet.     It  was  getting 


202  THE  FOOTSTEPS   OF  A  DOG 

time.    No  !    No  !    Not  yet— not  yet !    She  need  not  look 
that  in  the  face  yet. 

She  rose  suddenly  as  the  wheeling  oxen  brought  him  to 
her  once  more,  and  staying  them  with  one  swift  word,  bent 
over  the  sleeping  man. 

''Prem!"  she  said.  "  Prema !  I  am  here."  His  arms 
were  round  her  in  an  instant,  his  lips  on  hers ;  for  here, 
out  in  the  shadow  amongst  the  sunshine,  they  were  alone. 

"  Sarsuti !  Wife!"  he  murmured  drowsily,  then  with  a 
laugh,  shook  his  long  length  and  stood  beside  her,  his  arm 
still  about  her  waist.  Tall  as  he  was,  she  was  almost  as 
tall,  a  straight,  upstanding  Jatni  woman  with  eyebrows  like 
a  broad  bar  across  her  face. 

But,  as  her  dark  eyes  met  his  in  passionate  adoration, 
something  in  the  sight  of  his  exceeding  beauty  smote  her 
to  the  heart.  The  thought  that  there  was  none  to  inherit 
it,  the  knowledge  that  if  it  passed  it  would  leave  nothing 
behind  it.  It  is  a  thought  which  has  driven  many  an  Indian 
woman  to  take  another  woman  by  the  hand  and  lead  her 
home  to  be  a  hand-maiden  to  the  lord.  It  drove  Sarsuti — 
after  long  weeks,  nay,  months  of  thought — almost  to  speech. 

"  Prem !  "   she  faltered,  hiding  her  face  on  his  breast, 

*'I  have  been  thinking — thou  needst  a  son — and "     But 

she  could  get  no  further,  partly  because  the  words  seemed 
to  choke  her,  partly  because  Prema,  turning  her  face  to 
his  with  his  soft,  supple  hand,  stopped  her  mouth  with 
kisses. 

What  was  the  use?  What  was  the  use,  she  asked  her- 
self fiercely,  thinking  of  such  things  when  she  loved  him 
so  1  Some  morning,  aye  !  some  summer  morning  after  a 
summer's  night,  she  would  rather  make  the  Dream-com- 
peller  send  her  to  sleep,  once  and  for  all !— to  sleep  and 
dreams  of  Prema  and  his  love  !  Then  he  could  marry  again, 
and  there  would  be  children  to  light  up  the  old  house,  a 
son  to  light  the  funeral  pyre. 
But  now — no  !    Not  yet !  .  .  . 

The  sunshine  filtering  through  the  broad  leaves  dappled 
them  with  light  and  shade;  the  oxen  resting  stood  head 
down,  nosing  at  the  damp  earth;  the  water,  ceasing  to 
splash,  ran  silently  more  and  more  slowly  on  its  way,  and 


THE  FOOTSTEPS   OF  A  DOG  203 

all  around  them  a  yellow  glare  of  heat  hemmed  them  in 
breathlessly.  Yet  here,  at  the  well,  the  jasmine  grew 
green,  a  big  datura  lily,  rejoicing  in  the  shade,  threw  out 
its  wide  white  blossoms,  and,  looking  down  to  the  mirror- 
like pool  of  water  into  which  the  long,  unending  circle  of 
deftly-arranged  earthen  pots  and  ropes  dipped,  you  could 
see  the  tufts  of  maidenhair  fern  which  came  God  knows 
whence.     They  were  like  love  in  the  heart — Heaven-sent ! 

''Thou  wilt  call  at  the  Lala-jee's  this  evening,  Sarsuti, "' 
said  Prema,  with  a  faint  note  of  half-shamed  uneasiness 
in  his  voice,  as,  his  midday  meal  of  milk  and  hearth-cakes 
over,  she  prepared  to  go  back.  "He  deals  more  justly 
v/ith  thee  than  with  me — may  he  be  accursed,  and  may  the 
footsteps  of  a  dog  .  .  ." 

''S'st!  Prema,"  she  interrupted,  ''the  Lala-jec  is  no 
worse  than  his  kind;  and  we  have  asked  so  much — lately." 

Yes!  she  thought  as  she  trudged  homewards,  they  had 
asked  much,  for  Prema  had  a  lavish  hand.  Yet  she  would, 
ol  course,  have  him  keep  up  his  position  as  head  man  of 
the  village ;  the  position  that  had  been  hers  by  right  as  the 
only  child  of  her  father.  Prema,  her  cousin,  had  gained  it 
through  his  marriage  to  her,  by  special  favour  of  the 
Sirkar,  in  memory  of  good  service  done  in  the  Mutiny  time 
by  the  old  man.  He  had  been  a  better  husbandman  than 
Prema,  and  money  had  gone  fast  these  few  years  since  he 
died,  though  she  had  tried  to  keep  things  as  they  had  been. 
Still,  who  could  grudge  Prema  the  handsomest  yoke  of  oxen 
in  the  country-side,  the  fleetest  mare'?  And  those  mad 
experiments  of  his  with  new  ploughs,  new  seeds  that  the 
Huzoors  spoke  about !  It  was  well  to  keep  to  the  soft  side 
of  the  masters,  no  doubt,  yet  it  should  be  done  discreetly— 
and  when  was  Prema  ever  discreet  1  She  almost  laughed, 
even  while  she  stooped  to  let  the  water  from  an  over- 
flooded  plot  run  into  the  next  by  removing  the  clod  which 
her  husband  had  forgotten,  thinking  of  his  indiscreetness— 
of  the  gifts  he  showered  on  her  when  he  had  money  in  his 
pocket  to  pay  for  them ;  sometimes  when  he  had  not.  Of 
course,  the  Lala-jee  would  listen  to  reason  and  lend  more 
on  the  coming  crop— who  could  deny  Prem  anything  1 

But  the  Lala  was  curiously  obdurate.     He  was  an  old 


204  THE  FOOTSTEPS   OF  A   DOG 

man,  who  had  backed  the  luck  of  the  village  for  three 
generations,  and  never  had  a  dispute  with  his  creditors. 

''  See  you,  daughter,"  he  said.  "  Prem  for  all  he  is  head 
man  and  thy  husband,  is  but  man,  and  there  is  none  to 
come  after  him." 

Her  face  darkened  with  a  hot  blush  again. 

"The  land  will  be  there,"  she  replied,  haughtily. 

"Aye,  but  v/ho  will  own  its  Strangers,  they  say,  from 
far  away.    I  have  no  dealings  with  strangers." 

"There  will  be  my  share,"  she  protested. 

"Aye!  but  how  wilt  thou  fare  with  strangers  also, 
thou — childless  widow?"  he  asked. 

Her  hot  anger  flamed  up.  "  Wait  thou  and  see  !  Mean- 
while, since  thou  art  afraid,  take  this,"  she  tore  off  the 
solid  gold  bangle  she  wore,  "'tis  worth  fifty  rupees  at  the 
veriest  pawnshop — give  me  forty  !  " 

"Nay,"  replied  the  bunnya,  with  spirit.  " 'Tis  worth  a 
good  seventy-five,  though  thy  man — I'll  warrant  me^— paid 
a  hundred.  So  seventy-five  thou  shalt  have ;  but,  look  you, 
daughter — or,  if  thou  wiliest  it,  mother— keep  Prem  in  leash, 
or  a  surety  the  footsteps  of  a  dog  will  show  on  his  ashes." 

She  looked  at  him,  startled.  Curious  how  the  phrase, 
born  of  a  belief  that  one  can  read  the  reward  of  the  dead 
from  the  marks  which  show  on  his  funeral  pyre,  should 
crop  up.  First  from  Prem,  regarding  the  Lala-jce,  next 
from  the  Lala-jee  concerning  Prem.  Was  there  any  truth 
in  it,  she  wondered  1  She  had  the  money,  that  was  one 
comfort,  and  Prema  would  be  pleased.  Then,  when  the 
Biluch  mare  foaled,  and  they  sold  it  as  a  yearling  for  the 
three  hundred  rupees  Prem  thought  it  would  fetch,  she 
would  tell  him  how  she  had  pawned  his  gift;  meanwhile, 
a  brass  bracelet,  to  be  had  at  the  shop  for  a  rupee,  would 
serve  to  deceive  his  eyes.  But  not  the  sharp  ones  of  Veru, 
the  young  widow  who  was  the  only  other  inhabitant  of  the 
wide  courtyard  with  its  slips  of  arcaded  rooms  round  about 
it,  and  great  stacks  of  millet  stalks,  and  huge  bee-hive 
fitores  of  grain. 

Her  eyes  were  on  it  from  the  moment  Sarsuti,  sitting 
down  above  her  on  the  little  raised  mud  dais,  began  to  spin. 

"Thou  needst  not  stare  so,  girl,"  broke  in  Sarsuti,  at 


THE  FOOTSTEPS   OF  A  DOG  205 

last.  "  Yes  I  I  have  pawned  it.  He  needed  money,  and  he  is 
more  to  me  than  aught  else  beside — more  than  thou, 
husbandless,  can  dream,  child." 

Veru — she  was  indeed  but  little  more  than  a  child,  this 
virgin  widow  of  Sarsuti's  half-brother,  who  had  been  bom 
and  died  in  his  father's  old  age — held  her  head  lower  over 
her  wheel,  and  said  nothing.  Her  widow's  shroud  seemed 
to  swallow  her  up.  Yet  in  that  Jat  household  she  was 
kindly  enough  treated,  for  Sarsuti's  strong  arms  loved  work, 
and  she  had  a  great  pity  in  her  great  soft  heart  for  all 
unloved  things.  Here  was  no  question  of  shaven  head  or 
daily  fasting.  Veru  simply  led  a  cloistered  life,  and  did 
what  share  her  strength  allowed  of  the  daily  work.  Of 
late  that  had  not  been  much ;  she  had  complained  of  fatigue, 
and  had  sat  all  day  spinning  feverishly  as  if  to  make  up  for 
her  failure  in  other  ways;  for  she  was  a  sensitive  little 
thing,  ready  to  cry  at  a  word  of  blame. 

So  the  evening  passed  by.  Prema  was  not  to  be  back 
from  the  well  till  late,  not,  indeed,  until  the  moon  set ;  for 
the  young  millet  had  been  neglected  somewhat,  and  even 
he  was  roused  to  the  necessity  for  action.  Water  it  must 
have,  or  there  would  be  no  crop.  Thus,  as  the  sun  set, 
Sarsuti  cooked  the  supper,  reserving  the  best  dough  cakes, 
the  choicest  morsels  of  the  pickled  carrots  against  her 
husband's  return,  and  then,  being  weary,  lay  down  so  as 
to  freshen  herself  up  to  receive  him  as  he  should  be 
received.  The  night  was  hot,  there  was  a  restlessness  in 
it  which  found  its  way  into  her  mind,  and  she  lay  awake 
for  some  time  thinking  of  what  the  Lala-jee  had  said.  Yes ! 
It  was  time,  it  was  growing  time  for  so  many  things.  Yes  ! 
she  must  harden  her  heart  and  be  wise — the  footsteps  of 
the  .  .  . 

Here  she  fell  asleep. 

When  she  woke,  there  was  pitch  darkness.  The  moon 
had  set.  What  had  happened?  Had  Prema  returned,  and, 
full  of  kindliness  as  ever,  seen  she  was  tired  and  so 
refrained  from  waking  her?  She  put  out  her  hand  and 
touched  his  bed,  but  he  was  not  there.  How  late  he  was ! 
And  where  was  Verul  Veru,  who  should  have  been 
watching  for  him. 


206  THE   FOOTSTEPS   OF  A  DOG 

"  Veru  !  lazy  child — art  asleep?" 

Her  question  came  back  to  her  unanswered ;  Veru,  also, 
was  not  in  the  wide  courtyard.    Where  were  they  1 

The  very  conjunction  of  her  thought  regarding  them, 
woke  in  her  a  sudden  swift  pang  of  jealousy. 

Where  were  they? 

A  minute  later,  holding  an  oil  cresset  in  her  hand  as  a 
guard  against  snakes,  she  was  passing  swiftly  through  the 
deserted  village  on  her  way  to  the  well.  Prema  might 
have  fallen  asleep — he  might  be  asleep  still.  The  night 
was  so  dark,  she  held  the  lamp  high  above  her  head  so  as 
to  throw  its  light  before  her  on  the  narrow  edge  of  a 
pathway  between  the  flooded  fields.  It  was  so  still,  she 
could  hear  the  faint  sob  made  by  some  deadly  thing  slipping 
from  her  coming  into  the  water,  over  which  a  wandering 
firefly  would  flash,  revealing  an  inky  glimmer  between  the 
rising  shoots  of  corn.  Ahead,  that  massed  shadow  was  the 
banyan  tree.  The  fireflies  were  thick  there,  thick  as 
cressets  at  a  bridal  feast  .  .  . 

If  Prema  slept^ — Yes !  if  he  slept,  to  be  awakened  by  a 
kiss. 

Underneath  the  arching  branches  of  the  banyan  tree  it 
was  dark  indeed,  but  the  silence  of  it  told  her  that  the  oxen 
anyhow  were  at  rest. 

And  Prema ! 

As  she  held  the  light  forward,  something  on  the  ground 
at  her  feet  caught  her  eye — jasmine  !  Jasmine  twined  into 
a  wreath.     For  whose  head  1    N"ot  hers  ! 

"  Prema  !  "  she  called.     ''  Prem  !  " 

There  was  no  answer.  But  he  was  there  for  all  that ; 
half  resting  on  the  forked  seat,  as  if  he  had  flung  himself 
upon  it  when  weary ;  weary  and  content ;  his  head  thrown 
back  upon  his  arm,  his  whole  body  lax  with  sleep — and 
\\nth  content. 

She  had  seen  him  look  thus  so  often  !  "  Prem ! "  she 
whispered.     "  Prem  !  "  and  touched  him  on  the  bosom. 

Then  a  hideous  shriek  of  terror  and  horror  startled  the 
sleeping  oxen  into  forward  movement,  as  from  the  folds 
of  his  clothes,  like  some  evil  thought,  there  slipped  a  snake, 
swift,  curved,  disappearing  into  the  darkness. 


THE   FOOTSTEPS   OF   A   DOG  207 

''Prem!    Prem  1     Speak  to  me  1     Oh,  Prem— speak  !  " 

As  she  flung  herself  upon  him,  the  forward  movement  of 
the  oxen  forced  her  to  her  knees,  so  heeding  it  not  at  all, 
one  hand  holding  the  light  close  to  his  face  as  she  strove 
vainlj^  to  rouse  him,  she  was  dragged  along  the  accustomed 
round,  until  the  beasts,  recognising  the  unaccustomed 
strain,  paused  once  more. 

"  Prem  !  Say  thou  art  not  dead— say  only  that,  Prem  !  " 
she  moaned. 

Her  voice  seemed  to  reach  him  on  the  far  edge  of  the 
great  Blank,  for  his  eyelids  quivered.  Then,  for  one 
moment,  he  looked  at  her,  and  there  was  appeal  in  his 
eyes. 

"Wife — Veru — my "    It  was  scarcely  a  whisper,  but 

she  heard  it,  and  with  a  cry  of  joy,  she  caught  him  in  her 
strong  arms,  laid  him  on  the  ground,  and,  tearing  his  cloth 
aside,  sought  for  the  wound.  Finding  it,  her  lips  were  on 
it  in  a  second.  Ah  !  could  kisses  draw  the  poison,  surely 
her  frantic  love  must  avail. 

But  no.  His  eyelids  closed.  There  w^as  no  sound,  only 
a  little  quiver  that  she  felt  through  her  lips.  Then  his 
beauty  lay  still  beneath  them. 

After  a  time  she  drew  herself  away  from  him,  and  laid 
his  head  upon  her  lap.  So  she  sat,  dazed,  thinking  of  that 
jasmine  wreath  in  the  dust,  and  of  that  half-heard  whisper — 

''  Wife— Yeru— my "     My— what  ? 


''And  there  is  none  to  come  after  him,"  said  the  village 
worthies,  when  the  fire  of  Prema's  burning  had  died  down 
to  smouldering  embers,  and  the  oldest  man  of  his  clan  in 
the  village  had  performed  the  rites  which  should  have  been 
the  duty  of  a  son. 

And  then  they  shook  their  heads  wisely,  thinking  that 
men  of  Prem  Singh's  kind  ran  an  ill  risk  in  the  next  world 
without  a  son  to  perform  the  funeral  obsequies ;  especially, 
nowadays,  when  the  law  prevented  a  dutiful  wife  from 
ensuring  her  husband's  safety  and  salvation  by  burning 
herself  on  his  funeral  pyre.  Yea  !  it  was  an  ill  world  indeed 
in  which  the  fostered  virtue  of  a  woman  you  had  cared  for 


208  THE  FOOTSTEPS   OF  A   DOG 

and  cossetted  might  not  avail  to  save  the  man  she  loved 
from  the  pains  of  purgatory.  And  then  they  drifted  away, 
full  of  surmise  and  deep  desire  concerning  the  headship  of 
the  village.  Mai  Sarsuti  could  not  hold  it  as  a  widow, 
though  she  could  hold  the  land ;  and  there  were  no  relations 
— none.     So  the  coast  was  clear  for  many  claims. 

Sarsuti  meanwhile  had  not  clamoured — as  many  an 
Indian  widow  does  even  nowadays — to  be  allowed  to 
sacrifice  herself  for  her  husband's  salvation.  She  had 
scarcely  wept.  She  had,  on  the  contrary,  spoken  sternly 
to  Veru,  bidding  her  keep  her  foolish  tears  until  all  things 
had  been  done  in  due  order  to  keep  away  the  evil  spirits 
and  ensure  peace  to  the  departed. 

Then,  after  all  the  ceremonies  were  completed,  and 
Prem's  beauty  lay  swathed  awaiting  sunset  for  its  burning, 
she  had  sat  on  one  side  of  his  low  bier,  while  Veru  sat  on 
the  other,  and  the  wail  had  risen  piercingly — 

''Naked  he  came,  naked  he  has  gone;  this  empty 
dwelling-house  belongs  neither  to  you  nor  to  me." 

There  had  been  a  menace  in  her  voice,  high-pitched, 
clear,  almost  impassive,  while  Veru's  had  been  broken 
by  sobs. 

So  now  that  frail  weakling  was  asleep,  wearied  out  by 
her  woe,  while  Sarsuti  sat  where  the  bier  had  been,  still 
in  all  the  glory  of  her  wifely  raiment,  still  with  the 
vermilion  stain  upon  her  forehead,  still  wearing  round  her 
neck  the  blessed  marriage  cord  with  which  he  had  so  often 
toyed.  For  she  had  point-blank  refused  to  allow  it  to  be 
broken.  Time  enough  for  the  widow's  shroud,  she  had 
said.  To-day  she  was  still  Prem's  wife — he  had  scarce 
had  time  to  die. 

So  she  sat  quite  still,  looking  at  the  place  where  he  had 
lain,  thinking  of  those  last  words.  Had  she  really  heard 
them?  Was  it  possible,  the  thing  that  had  leapt  to  her 
mind? 

Deep  down  in  her  heart  she  knew  vaguely  that  the  feet 
of  her  idol  had  been  of  clay ;  that  with  Prem  all  things  were 
possible.  Poor,  wandering  feet,  which  might  yet  have  kept 
to  the  straight  path,  if — Oh,  Prem  !  Prem !  Had  it  been 
her  fault?    Or  was  she  wronging  him? 


THE   FOOTSTEPS   OF  A  DOG  209 

Then,  suddenly,  that  recurring  phrase  recurred  to  her 
once  more. 

''The  footstep  of  a  dog — the  footstep  of  a  dog." 

Was  it  past  midnights  Had  another  day  begun — the 
day  of  judgment  1  Surely ;  then  she  could  see — yea  1  She 
could  prove  it  was  not  true. 

The  moon  was  just  sinking  as,  close-wrapped  in  her  veil, 
she  crept  down  to  the  edge  of  the  nullah,  where  the  burning- 
ground  lay;  a  gruesome  place,  haunted  by  the  spirits  of 
the  departed,  not  to  be  ventured  near  after  dark.  But 
Sarsuti  had  forgotten  all  the  village  lore,  she  had  forgotten 
everything  save  that  deadly  doubt. 

Yonder,  it  must  be  on  the  point  close  to  the  water,  for 
still  an  almost  mist-like  vapour  lingered  there.  She  sped 
past  the  faintly  lighted  patches  on  the  hard-baked  soil 
which  told  of  other  burnings,  murmuring  a  prayer  for  the 
peace  of  dead  souls,  and  so  found  herself  beside  that  little 
pile  of  dear  ashes.  A  breeze  from  the  coming  dawn  stirred 
them,  sending  a  grey  flake  or  two  to  meet  her. 

''Prem!"  she  whispered;  then,  as  she  stooped  to  look, 
the  whisper  passed  to  a  cry — 

"Oh!    Prema!     Prema ! " 

She  lay  there  face  down,  her  hands  grovelling  in  the  still 
warm  embers  on  which  there  showed  unmistakably  the 
footstep  of  a  dog ! 

And  the  moon  sank,  so  there  was  darkness  for  a  while. 
Then  in  the  far  east  the  horizon  lightened,  bringing  a  grey 
mystery  to  the  wide  expanse  of  the  level  world.  And 
behind  the  greyness  came  a  primrose  dawn,  and  the  sun, 
rising  serene  and  bright,  sent  a  shaft  of  light  to  touch  her 
as  she  lay. 

Then  she  rose,  and  dusting  the  dear  ashes  from  her 
almost  blistered  hands,  she  crept  back  to  the  wide  court- 
yard, where  Veru  still  slept,  worn  out  by  sorrow.  She 
stood  watching  her  asleep,  wondering  at  her  own  blindness. 
Then  she  touched  her  on  the  bosom. 

''  Wake  I  "  she  cried,  in  a  loud  voice.  '*  Wake  !  Oh,  Veru  ! 
And  speak  the  truth!" 

The  girl  started  up,  and  the  eyes  of  the  two  women  met. 


210  THE  FOOTSTEPS   OF  A  DOG 

The  village  was  bitterly  disappointed;  but,  of  course, 
there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  wait  and  see  if  the  child 
was  a  son,  for  Mai  Sarsuti  had  stolen  a  march  on  thera. 
She  had  gone  staight  to  the  burra-sahib,  straight  to  the 
head  district  official,  and  told  him  of  her  hopes.  Vv^hat  is 
more,  she  had  petitioned  for  trustees  to  work  the  land, 
seeing  that  she  and  her  sister-in-law  were  poor  widows; 
and  she,  especially,  unfit  for  work. 

So  three  of  the  village  eiders  had  been  convened  to  see 
to  the  land  and  render  account  to  the  sahib,  who  would 
be  sure  to  keep  an  eye  on  them  seeing  that  Mai  Sarsuti 
was  an  upstanding,  straightforward  Jatni,  just  the  kind  to 
whom  the  sahib-logue  gave  consideration.  And,  after  all, 
she  and  hers  deserved  it,  for  they  came  of  a  long  line  of 
virtuous,  loyal  people. 

So  Sarsuti,  with  Veru,  lived  in  the  seclusion  which 
befitted  her  recent  loss ;  though,  according  to  custom,  she 
still  wore  a  wife's  dress.  But  she  grew  haggard  as  the 
months  went  by.  Small  wonder,  said  the  village  matrons, 
v/hen  they  returned  from  their  occasional  visits,  seeing  that 
she  awaited  a  fatherless  child. 

Then  one  morning,  Veru,  looking  very  worn  and 
frightened,  and  ill,  came  to  tell  the  elders  that  a  son  had 
been  born  to  Sarsuti.  Perhaps  it  was  as  well,  they  thought, 
since  otherwise  there  might  be  disputes  about  the  headship. 
Now  there  could  be  none ;  and  as  there  would  be  a  very 
long  minority  under  the  care  of  the  sahibs,  Prem's  son 
would  come  in  to  free  land,  and  money  laid  up  in  the  bank. 
A  rich  headman  was  always  a  prop  to  the  village.  So  their 
wives  went  to  congratulate  the  new-made  mother. 

She  was  looking  haggard  still,  and  scarcely  seemed  to 
rejoice  in  her  great  gift;  but  that,  perhaps,  might  come 
by  and  bye. 

But  it  did  not.  Sometimes  she  would  take  the  baby  and 
look  at  it  long  and  earnestly.  Then  she  would  give  it  back 
to  Veru,  whose  arms  were  seldom  empty  of  Prem's  child, 
and  return  to  the  work  of  the  house,  or  sit  watching  them 
gravely  from  her  spinning-wheel,  her  large  dark  eyes  full 
of  wistful  pain. 

So  the  months  sped  by. 


THE   FOOTSTEPS   OF  A  DOG  211 

And  still  Sarsuti  wore  a  wife's  dress  and  smeared 
vermilion  on  her  forehead;  and  the  mangala  sutram,  still 
unbroken,  held  the  wife's  medal  round  her  throat.  It  would 
be  time,  she  answered  proudly  to  the  shocked  village 
women,  to  think  of  breaking  it  when  Prem  should  have 
been  dead  a  year,  and  the  child  be  able  to  suck  cow's  milk. 

She  prepared  for  the  anniversary  by  purchasing  a  Maw's 
feeding  bottle,  and  an  eagerness  grew  to  her  face  as  she 
watched  little  Prem  take  it,  and  roll  over  contentedly  to 
sleep,  like  the  fat  good-natured  little  lump  of  a  healthy  child 
as  he  was.     But  Veru  wept. 

Still,  Maw  had  supplanted  Motherhood  when  the  night 
came  round  again  on  which  Sarsuti  had  heard  that  faint 
whisper  from  her  dying  husband.  The  child  slept  as  a  child 
should,  and  Veru,  once  more  worn  out  by  tears,  slept  also. 

But,  as  on  that  night  a  year  ago,  Sarsuti  sat  on  the 
place  where  Prem's  bier  had  lain  and  thought,  her  dark  eyes 
full  of  a  great  resolve.  Suddenly  she  rose,  tall,  straight, 
upstanding,  and  passed  to  where  the  child  lay.  She 
stooped  and  kissed  it— kissed  it  for  the  first  time— then, 
throwing  her  arms  skyivards,  murmured  to  High  Heaven, 
''Lo  !  I  have  saved  him— I,  his  wife"  ;  and  so,  catching  up 
a  small  bundle  which  she  had  prepared,  passed  into  the 
darkness  of  the  night. 

***** 

They  found  her  charred  body  at  dawn,  face  downwards, 
where  the  footsteps  of  a  dog  had  shown  upon  Prem's  ashes. 

She  had  saturated  her  clothes  with  paraffin,  and  set  fire 
to  herself  deliberately. 

"  Lo  !  how  she  loved  him,"  said  the  village  elders,  behind 
their  outward  and  decorous  disapproval.  ''  See  you,  she 
is  decked  as  a  bride  with  all  her  jewels.  Now,  with  a  son 
in  his  house,  and  suttee  on  his  pyre,  there  is  no  fear  but 
what  Prem  hath  found  freedom." 

"Ay!  "  assented  the  Lala-jee.  ''The  footstep  of  a  dog 
will  not  be  seen  on  his  ashes." 


o  2 


THE   FINDING   OF   PRIVATE 
FLANIGAN 


We  were  quartered  up  in  the  hills  making  a  military  road 
when  Private  Flanigan  was  lost.  It  was  to  be  a  big  road, 
cutting  clean  into  the  heart  of  the  Himalayas,  so  various 
detachments  were  set  to  work  upon  its  long  length.  Ours  was 
the  last  but  one,  and  we  were  lucky  in  getting  by  far  the 
best  pitch  on  the  whole  line.  It  would  be  difficult,  indeed, 
to  exaggerate  its  beauty,  and  as  summer  came  on  the 
advantages  of  shade-shelter  which  it  afforded  made  us  feel 
blessed  above  our  fellows.  It  was  a  green  oasis  about 
half-a-mile  long  by  some  quarter  broad,  of  fine  emerald 
sward  not  to  be  beaten  by  any  English  lawn.  And  it  was 
irregularly  fringed  by  the  most  magnificent  deodar  cedars 
I  have  ever  seen.  When  we  arrived  in  early  autumn  these 
were  wreathed  with  Virginia  creeper  already  russet,  which, 
as  winter  advanced,  flamed  like  fire  among  the  dark  spines. 
Xow,  in  spring  the  trees  were  hung  to  their  very  tops  with 
a  rambling  white  rose,  faintly  double,  faintly  yet  pene- 
tratingly scented,  which  festooned  the  whole  forest,  making 
it  look  as  if  it  were  garlanded  for  some  festival,  and  turning 
the  oval  greensward  into  a  veritable  stadium  fit  for  the 
sport  of  a  King;  for  an  amphitheatre  of  blue  hills  rose 
behind  the  forest,  with  here  and  there  a  peak  of  eternal 
snow. 

It  was  simply  a  ripping  place,  and  when  on  Saturday 
evenings,  the  detachment  further  south,  and  the  detach- 
ment further  north,  used  to  come  over  to  play  football,  the 
fellows  were  always  full  of  envy.  Our  men — there  were  but 
two  officers  with  each  detachment — were  little  Ghurkas, 
but  they  played  an  uncommonly  good  game,  thanks  partly 
to  the  fact  that  my  captain  was  an  old  Rugby  man,  and 
gave  his  countenance  to  practice.  But  our  chief  asset  was 
Private  Flanigan  of  the  small  party  of  Sappers  and  Miners 
who  acted  as  overseers  on  the  works.     He  was  not,  perhaps. 


216      THE  FINDING   OF  PKIVATE  FLANIGAN 

a  shining  example  to  the  men  in  other  ways,  but  so  far  as 
football  went,  he  was  the  best  possible  coach. 

The  result  was,  that,  despite  their  small  size,  our 
Ghurkas  could  hold  their  own  with  the  detachment  of 
Tommies  further  south.  They  never  actually  won  a  match, 
but  they  made  a  stubborn  fight,  and  accepted  honourable 
defeat  good  h/mouredly,  treating  their  adversaries  right 
royally  at  the  canteen  afterwards  in  the  manner  of  Ghurkas 
when  they  get  chummy  with  British  regiments.  It  was  a 
quaint  sight  to  see  them  hob-nobbing  together  at  the 
further  end  of  the  stadium,  where  there  was  a  duck-pond 
sort  of  lake  half  filled  with  sacred  lotus,  blossoming  white 
and  pink.  A  wood-slab  little  temple  dedicated  to  Kali 
stood  beside  this  lake  with  steps  leading  down  to  the  water; 
but  nobody  seemed  to  notice  its  presence,  and  the  very 
brahman  in  charge  used  to  come  and  watch  the  games  with 
interest ;  perhaps  he  thought  it  sufficiently  savage  to  please 
the  terrific  goddess  who  sat  enshrined  in  a  little  dark  hole, 
where  nothing  was  to  be  seen  of  Her  but  crimson  arms  and 
hands,  one  of  them  apparently  holding  a  football.  It 
certainly  was  bloodthirsty  enough  one  day  when  the 
detachment  further  north  came  down  to  try  their  luck. 
They  were  the  biggest,  tallest,  lankiest  lot  of  Sikhs  I  ever 
saw,  but,  perhaps  because  they  had  such  long  shins,  they 
simply  knuckled  under  before  a  rush  of  our  little  beggars. 
It  was  almost  pitiable  to  see  them;  the  more  so  because 
they  were  furious,  and  would  not  accept  consolation,  even 
at  the  hands  of  Private  Flanigan,  who  with  unblushing 
kindness  of  heart,  took  all  the  credit  to  himself  in  the 
curious  dialect  he  used  as  a  means  of  communication  with 
his  pupils ;  for  being  a  Manchester  Irishman,  his  English 
had  to  contend  with  a  town  accent,  a  Lancashire  accent 
and  an  Irish  accent,  while  his  Hindustani  was  of  the  lowest 
type  to  be  picked  up  in  a  barrack  square. 

"  'Taint  your  kussoor  (fault),  sonnies,  at  all,  at  all !  be 
jabers !  nahin  (no).  Don'tcher  fret.  Dil  hhoosh  (heart 
happy).  Kape  yer  'air  on.  Dehko  you  soors — beg  pardon, 
gintlemen,  it  was  a  mistake  entoirely ! — You  'aven't  a 
Nadmi  (man)  like  Tim  Flanigan  to  purwarish  Jcaro  (nourish) 
1/ou."     So  in  his  garbled  language  he  went  on  to  boast  of 


THE   FINDING   OF   PRIVATE  FLANIGAN       217 

what  he  had  done  for  the  little  Gherkins,  as  he  was  wont 
to  call  them,  making  them,  indeed,  rhyme  to  jerkins  and 
firkins  in  a  football  song  he  had  composed ;  for  Private 
Flanigan  was  great  at  singing,  also  at  clog  dancing.  In 
fact,  he  was  good  at  anything  and  everything  he  chose  to 
take  in  hand  thoroughly ;  but  that  was  not  much,  for  a  more 
idle,  able,  devil-may-care  fellow  did  not  exist.  He  was, 
however,  a  general  favourite,  and  I  noticed  that  even  my 
regulationarily  correct  captain  dealt  leniently  with  his  not 
infrequent  lapses  from  good  behaviour.  Flanigan  was  in 
tremendous  form  at  a  sing-song  held  the  night  of  the  foot- 
ball match,  and  literally  brought  down  the  house  with  his 
clog  accompaniment  to  a  patter  song  in  which  he  parodied 
the  feelings  of  victor  and  vanquished.  Even  the  priest  of 
Kali,  who,  as  usual,  viewed  the  performance  from  a  distance, 
was  reported  to  have  observed  that  the  energetic  and  active 
Goddess  herself  could  not  have  danced  with  greater  vigour 
upon  the  prostrate  body  of  Shiv-jee  1 

As  for  the  Sikhs,  they  positively  bellowed  with  delight, 
although  Private  Flanigan  had  not  paltered  with  such 
obvious  rhymes  as  kicks  and  licks.  In  fact,  the  whole 
audience  was  so  happy  and  hilarious  that  we  hoped  the 
slight  difference  of  the  afternoon  was  forgotten;  but  we 
were  mistaken.  About  midnight  Sunt  Singh,  havildar, 
began  to  attribute  Jye  Kush  naich's  flat  nose  to  a  provision 
of  the  All-wise  Creator  in  view  of  football  squashes,  and 
assert  magniloquently  that  God  never  made  an  ugly  Sikh, 
whereat  strife  arose,  and  kuhries  and  hichwas  might  have 
drawn  blood  had  not  my  captain  shown  discreet  firmness, 
and  sent  an  exactly  equal  number  of  Sikhs  and  Gurkhas 
to  the  guard  room. 

It  was  very  shortly  after  this  incident  that  Private 
Flanigan  found  himself  there  also ;  as  usual  for  patronising 
the  canteen  too  liberally.  But  this  time  he  was  profusely 
indignant,  and  assured  me  on  his  Bible  oath— as  a  rule  he 
professed  Roman  Catholicism— that  it  was  a  gross  case  of 
mistaken  diagnosis.  He  had  not  been  drunk;  still  less, 
disorderly.  When  the  sergeant  put  him  under  arrest  he 
was  merely  giving  a  realistic  and  spirited  representation 
of  last  year's  All  England  match  as  it  had  appeared  to  him. 


218      THE  FINDING  OF   PRIVATE  FLANIGAN 

And  this  he  was  doing  solely  for  the  benefit  of  his  pupils, 
the  little  Gherkins;  shirkin',  lurkin'  little  Gherkins,  who 
had  basely  failed  to  speak  up  for  him  when  he  was  comatose 
from  fatigue. 

That  was  about  the  last  time  I  ever  spoke  to  poor 
Flanigan ;  for  about  a  week  after  he  was  mysteriously  lost. 
I  say  mysteriously,  because  though  all  sorts  of  theories  were 
put  forward  to  explain  his  disappearance,  none  of  them  were 
entirely  satisfactory.  I  myself,  inclined  to  the  explanation 
that,  being,  according  to  the  Ghurkas'  testimony,  a  little 
bit  on  at  the  time,  he  lost  his  life  in  a  sudden  spate  of  the 
river  caused  by  the  melting  of  the  snows  in  the  higher  hills. 
It  was  a  very  sudden  spate,  and  caught  the  working  party 
as  they  were  clearing  the  southern  end  of  a  deep  cutting — a 
tunnel,  indeed,  for  twenty  yards  or  so — which  lay  just  at 
the  end  of  our  section.  The  Sikhs,  however,  who  were 
working  at  the  northern  end,  escaped  the  flood  altogether, 
and  rather  jeered  at  our  men  who  had  to  scramble  for  dear 
life,  some  regaining  the  camp  and  others  spending  the  night 
in  the  open;  so,  each  party  thinking  Flanigan  must  be 
with  the  other,  he  was  not  missed  till  next  morning,  when 
it  was  too  late  to  find  his  body. 

We  dragged  the  river  pools  to  no  purpose,  then,  as  the 
spate  had  ruined  half  our  work,  gave  up  the  search  and 
duly  reported  his  death  at  headquarters. 

With  the  prospect  of  the  advancing  hot  weather  before 
us,  when  we  must  knock  off,  there  was  not  much  time  for 
amusement,  and  we  were  kept  pretty  close  at  it.  But  a 
Himalaya  spring  in  the  uplands  was  a  perpetual  temptation 
to  me,  and  I  used  to  start  off  at  dawn  time  for  a  long  tramp 
on  the  higher  murgs  or  alps,  taking  my  gun  with  me  in  case 
I  came  across  an  old  cock  minmvul  pheasant.  There  was  a 
perfect  mosaic  of  flowers  beneath  one's  feet;  forget-me- 
nots,  pansies,  white  anemones,  yellow  gillyflowers,  scarlet 
potentilla  and  half-a-hundred  others  whose  names  I  did 
not  know.  You  could  not  set  your  foot  down  without 
crushing  some  beautiful  thing;  you  felt  that  you  were 
ramping  through  a  veritable  garden. 

Then  it  was  marvellous  to  see  the  snow  peaks  flush  red 
with  sunrise  while  the  shadov/  of  night— the  shadow  of  the 


THE  FINDING  OF  PRIVATE  FLANIGAN       219 

earth  itself ! — still  lay  immovable  in  the  valleys,  and  you 
had  to  bend  close  over  the  mosaic  to  distinguish  one  flower 
from  another.  Even  the  cock  minawul,  despite  their 
dazzling  metallic  lustre,  looked  shadowy  and  dark  as  they 
rose ;  rose  swiftly  to  flash  out  suddenly  into  copper  and 
green,  and  silvery  goldeny  blue  as  they  met  the  higher 
sunlight. 

One  morning,  thinking  I  had  hit  a  splendid  specimen  of 
these  rocketting  fireworks,  and  being  anxious  to  secure  such 
a  perfectly  plumaged  bird,  I  followed  one  over  keenly.  The 
result  being  that  I  lost  my  way,  and  found  myself  under  a 
blazing  hot  sun,  still  seeking  for  my  particular  valley.  At 
long  last  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  deodar  trees  below  me  and 
bega^n  to  descend  confidently ;  but  half  way  down  a  certain 
strangeness  of  contour  made  me  pull  up  and  question  my 
judgment. 

No  !  it  was  not  our  valley.  It  was  too  narrow,  too  small ; 
besides,  there  was  no  lakelet  in  it.  Indeed,  there  seemed 
no  way  out  of  it;  it  lay  like  an  extinct  crater,  absolutely 
shut  in  by  the  high  hills,  tucked  away — right  av/ay — No  ! 
by  Jove  !  there  v/ere  people  or  things  in  it.  I  could  see 
a  steady  white  spot  of  something  on  the  greensward,  and  a 
sort  of  dancing  circle  of  black  specks. 

Were  they  men  or  animals  ?  I  was  too  short-sighted  to 
distinguish ;  so  I  started  downwards  again,  impelled  by 
curiosity  and  a  vague  feeling  that  I  knew  what  was  coming, 
to  find  a  point  of  vantage  whence  I  could  see  clearly. 

I  don't  think  I  was  in  the  least  surprised  at  what  I  did 
see.  I  am  sure  my  inner  consciousness  was  aware  of  it 
before  I  was. 

The  dazzling  white  speck  was  Private  Flanigan.  He 
was  standing  in  a  dignified  attitude  in  the  very  middle  of 
the  field,  naked  as  the  day  he  was  bom,  save  for  a  waist- 
cloth  and  the  biggest  pair  of  boots  I  ever  saw.  At  his  feet 
lay  a  football,  and  in  his  right  hand  was  a  glass  of  some- 
thing to  drink,  which,  between  his  sips,  he  used  to  beckon 
on  his  adversaries. 

I  crept  further  till  I  could  hear  his  voice. 

'^  Come  on,  sonnies !  come  on,  boys !  '*  it  came  per- 
suasively.    '' Idder  ^Woxo!    I  won't  'urt  much — not  to  spake 


220       THE   FINDING   OF   PRIVATE   FLANIGAN 

of — Kooch  nay — Come  on,  I  says."  Then,  as  his  invitation 
was  reluctantly  accepted,  he  lunged  out  a  wild  kick,  an 
awful  howl  followed,  and  yet  another  lanky  Sikh  retired 
rapidy,  rubbing  his  shin.  Whereat  Private  Flanigan 
laughed  and  took  another  sip  triumphantly. 

''Bahoot  utcha.f — the  rollicking  tones  were  a  trifle  thick 
— ''Now  you're  learning,  I  tell  yer — yer  'ardening  like  a 
hegg  in  'ot  water.  And  you'll  soon  get  useter  it.  You 
won't  remember  it  when  yer  sees  the  leather  a-sailing 
through  the  uprights.  No,  yer  won't !  No  more  nor  a 
woman  for  joy  as  a  man  is  born  into  the  wurrld.  Hello  ! 
ye  divvle — ye  would,  would  yeV 

This  was  to  an  enterprising  youth  who  thought  to  take 
advantage  of  a  prolonged  drink  to  sniggle  the  ball. 

I  lay  and  laughed.  I  couldn't  help  it.  Flanigan  wasn't 
a  big  man,  but  he  was  brawny,  and  the  Sikhs,  twice  his 
height,  had  such  temptingly  long  shins  ! 

I  watched  the  lesson  of  how  to  defend  the  globe  until, 
after  several  replenishings  of  the  glass  he  held,  Private 
Flanigan' s  dignity  became  portentous,  and  his  lunge  a  little 
wide. 

Evidently,  however,  he  was  not  too  far  gone  to  recognise 
the  fact,  for  suddenly  he  sat  down,  still  guarding  the  ball 
with  his  wide-spread  legs,  and  called  for  a  pipe,  a  pillow, 
and  a  punkah. 

All  three  were  instantly  forthcoming,  and  as  I  cautiously 
re-climbed  the  hill,  I  saw  Private  Flanigan  enjoying  his 
ease  in  the  centre  of  an  admiring  circle  of  pupils. 

As  I  made  my  way  home,  I  puzzled  over  what  I  had  best 
do.  Of  course,  it  was  easy  to  report  to  my  captain,  but, 
by  so  doing,  I  should  get  a  lot  of  men  into  trouble  over 
what  was,  in  reality,  a  huge  joke.  Anyhow,  before  I  did 
so  report,  I  determined  to  find  out  whether  Private  Flanigan 
had  absconded  himself,  or  had  been  stolen. 

So  the  next  evening,  having  carefully  taken  the  bearings 
of  our  valley  in  miniature  the  day  before,  I  went  over  after 
work  hours.  When  I  came  on  the  level  at  the  bottom,  I 
found  that  quite  a  large  wood  slab  shed  had  been  erected 
at  one  end  of  the  little  bit  of  greensward.  As  I  crossed 
towards  it  the  familiar  sound  of  really  good  clog  dancing 


THE   FINDING   OF   PRIVATE  FLANIGAN       221 

met  my  ears  accompanying  a  rollicking  baritone  voice  that 
was  singing  the  refrain  of  a  patter  song: 

"  Kick  an'   'ammer  away  at  their  shins, 

"  Silly  old  dribblers  as  cole'  cream  their  skins, 

"Barkin',  lurkin',   shirkin'   Gherkins, 

"  Give  'em  a  crush  and   a  rush  for  their  sins, 

"Yoicks!    hey  forward!    !    !— the  Sicki  wins." 

A  perfect  bellow  of  applause  was  following  as  I  opened  the 
slab  door  and  walked  in.  There  was  a  regular  stage  at 
the  end  of  the  shed,  and  on  it  stood  Tim  Flanigan,  bowing 
his  acknowledgments  to  an  audience  of  squatting  Sikhs 
with  much  dignity.  A  flimsy  muslin  overcoat  partially  hid 
his  massive  muscles  and  he  was  garlanded  with  flowers  like 
a  prize  ox  at  a  show.  He  did  not  notice  me  at  first,  and 
began  a  speech  in  true  music  hall  style,  his  hand  on  his 
heart : 

"  My  kyind  patrons,  an'  you  Gintlemen  of  the  Press,  it 
is  with  the  hutmost  diffidence  that  I  roise  to  drink  me  own 
'elth,  you,  gintlemen,  bein'  by  birth  and  descent  tay 
totallers,  which  is  better  by  a  long  chalk  than  being 
answered  for  by  godfathers  an'  godmothers  at  your  baptism. 
Gintlemen,  I  have  but  a  few  wurrds  to  say,  so  I  will  not 
detain  you.  Since  I  come  'ere— I  mean  since  the  woise 
decrays  of  a  koindly  Providence  brought  me  to  the  wilder- 
ness, I  'ave  endeavoured  to  do  my  dooty  by  you,  an'  I  done 
it.  Gintlemen  !  you  are  a  credit  to  me.  There  ain't  a  'ole 
skin  amongst  the  lot  of  your  shins.  Gintlemen  !  it  is  a  thing 
to  be  proud  of.  It  makes  the  tear  come  to  my  watery  heyes 
an'  sends  the  life  blood  to  the  tip  of  my  nose.  I  tell  you, 
gintlemen,  that  if  any  of  thim  officer  chaps  were  to  step 

in   this   moment "     Here   his    eye   caught   mine.     The 

change  was  instantaneous,  and  he  brought  himself  up  to  the 
salute  smartly, 

"  Beg  pardon,  sir,"  he  went  on,  without  the  least  sign 
of  embarrassment.  ''Havin'  bin  h'absent  without  leave, 
sir,  this  fortnight  past  through  being  kidnapped  outrageous, 
I  'as  to  report  myself." 

I  mustered  up  what  gravity  I  could,  for  his  attitude  of 
respectful  and  disciplined  attention  was  excruciatingly 
funny  in  contrast  with  his  costume — or  rather  the  lack  of  it. 


222      THE  FINDING   OF   PRIVATE  FLANIGAN 

'^  Private  Flanigan,"  I  said.  '^Have  done  with  tom- 
foolery.    How  the  devil  do  you  come  here^'^ 

*'I  didn't  come,  sir,"  he  replied  volubly.  "I  was 
brought,  s'heip  me  Moses.  I  was  kidnapped  outrageous,  as 
I  said,  by  them  Sickies,  same  as  seethin'  it  in  its  mother's 
milk.  I  was,  entirely,  sir — sure  the  bla'gards  won't  deny  it." 

Here,  havildar  Sunt  Singh,  who  understood  English, 
broke  in  rapidly  in  Hindustani.  "  He  speaks  truth,  Huzoor. 
He  did  not  come  of  himself.  He  was  brought  hither  when 
he  was  without  consciousness." 

''From  drink,  I  suppose?"  I  asked  severely. 

Havildar  Sunt  Singh  paused  a  moment.  "  Huzoor,"  he 
said  at  last,  solemnly.  "  In  a  world  of  illusion  it  is  difficult 
to  reach  truth ;  but  one  thing  is  certain,  by  the  blessing  of 
God  he  was  extremely  without  consciousness.  Was  it  not 
so,  brothers?"  he  continued,  appealing  to  two  naicks  and 
another  havildar  who  were  also  standing  to  attention. 
Their  corroborative  " Be-shakks'^  rang  out  smartly,  like  a 
rifle  shot. 

"  That  is  all  very  well,"  I  continued,  sternly  addressing 
the  culprit-in-chief.  "If  they  kidnapped  you,  they'll  have 
to  answer  for  it;  but  that  is  no  excuse  for  you  stopping 
here.     You  can't  pretend  you're  a  prisoner,  you  know." 

I  glanced  round  as  I  spoke,  and  Flanigan's  eyes  followed 
mine.  There  was  a  bed  in  one  corner,  a  chair,  a  washhand- 
stand,  an  assortment  of  Europe  tins,  a  box  of  cigars  in  a 
rough  set  of  shelves,  while  on  one  side  of  the  stage  stood 
a  table,  elaborately  laid  for  dinner,  with  a  tablenapkin 
folded  into  the  form  of  a  peacock ! 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  candour  came  to  Private 
Flanigan's  aid — almost  pathetic  candour. 

"Well!  it  weren't  exactly  uncomfortable,  you  see,  sir," 
he  said,  with  a  deprecating  smile ;  and  I  had  to  admit  the 
justice  of  his  plea.  It  was  more  comfortable  than  being 
packed  like  a  herring  in  a  barrel  in  a  bell  tent.  I  had, 
moreover,  thought  the  matter  out,  and  had  come  to  the 
conclusion  that  the  less  said  about  it  the  better.  So  I 
gave  Private  Flanigan  the  option  of  taking  the  pledge,  and 
returning  to  duty,  making  the  best  excuse  he  could  for 
his  absence,  or  being  sent  for  officially. 


THE   FINDING   OF   PRIVATE  FLANIGAN       223 

He  chose  the  former,  to  the  great  delight  of  the  Sikhs, 
who,  as  he  had  said,  were  teetotallers  to  a  man,  and  who 
naturally  did  not  want  to  get  into  trouble  over  the  business. 

Next  morning  Private  Flanigan  reported  himself  to  my 
captain.  He  was  bare-foot,  travel-stained,  weary,  and  he 
had  the  most  cock-and-bull  story  I  ever  heard  of  how  he 
had  spent  the  last  ten  days. 

''If  there  had  been  any  liquor  shop  within  two  hundred 
miles  I  wouldn't  believe  him,"  said  my  captain  in  an 
injured  tone,  "but  there  isn't — and  no  man  is  such  a  fool 
as  to  stop  out  in  this  wild  country  for  nothing." 

So  the  tale  passed  muster.  Had  I  known,  however,  of 
the  richness  of  the  culprit's  imagination,  I  doubt  whether 
I  should  have  given  him  such  a  field  for  it;  for  the  story 
of  the  "loss  of  Private  Flanigan"  became  a  recognised 
entertainment,  even  for  the  Gherkins,  and  night  after  night 
he  gave  a  different  version  of  it  to  delighted  admirers.  I 
ventured  once  to  remonstrate  with  him,  and  hint  that 
capture  by  cannibals  was  hardly  correct;  but  his  uncon- 
sciousness was  supreme. 

"  S'elp  me  Moses,  sir,"  he  said.  "You  don'  know  wot 
I  bin  through.  They'd  have  eat  me,  sure  enuff,  if  I  'adn't 
happen  to  'ave  my  big  boots  on." 

A  fortnight  afterwards  we  finished  the  work,  but  before 
we  left  our  jolly  little  camp  we  had  a  football  Saturday. 
The  Sikhs  came  down  in  force,  and  licked  the  little  Ghurkas 
all  to  smithereens. 

"They  must  a  'ad  some  un  to  teach  'em  'ow  to  charge, 
sir,"  said  Private  Flanigan  sorrowfully  to  the  captain. 

The  captain  looked  at  me,  and  I  looked  at  the  captain. 
But  I  said  nothing,  for  Flanigan  had  been  as  sober  as  a 
judge  since  I  found  him. 


REX  ET   IMP: 


''Rex  -will  get  on  all  right,''  said  Muriel  Alexander 
pettishly,  ''you  know  quite  well,  Horace,  that  so  long  as 
he  has  old  Bisvas  he  wants  nothing  else.  Look  at  him 
now  !  He  is  quite  happy,  and  the  old  man  would  die  rather 
than  let  any  harm  happen  to  the  child." 

Horace  Alexander  frowned  slightly  as  he  looked  through 
the  wide  set  door  of  his  office  room  to  the  verandah  beyond. 
It  was  a  very  neat,  natty,  office  room,  severely  correct  and 
Western  in  its  pigeon-holes,  its  files,  its  elegant  upholstered 
chair  at  the  further  side  of  the  writing  table  ready  for  the 
confidential  visitor.  No  guns  defiled  it;  no  tennis  bats,  no 
half-used  box  of  cigars,  no  general  litter  of  unofficial  male 
humanity  such  as  most  Indian  office  rooms  in  the  past  have 
permitted,  was  to  be  seen  within  the  precincts  sacred  to 
duty,  for  Horace  Alexander  was  that  curious  product  of 
modern  times,  a  clever  and  advanced  man,  bent  upon 
progress,  who  stickles  for  the  commonplace  conventional 
etiquette  in  all  things.  So  he  stirred  uneasily  at  the  sight 
he  saw  beyond  his  office  doors,  dropped  his  eye-glasses  and 
put  them  on  again  petulantly. 
Yet  it  was  rather  a  pretty  sight. 

A  red-haired,  fuzzy-headed  child  of  four  or  five,  small; 
but  strong  and  sturdy,  seated  v>4th  the  utmost  dignity  oil 
a  red  velvet  cushion,  his  broad  freckled  face  wearing  an 
expression  of  conscious  majesty,  part  of  which  was  doubt- 
less due  to  the  insecurity  of  a  gilt  paper  band  which  was 
perched  on  his  goldy-red  curls. 

Before  him,  in  an  attitude  of  prayerful  adoration, 
squatted  a  very  very  old  man.  At  his  full  height  he  must 
still  have  been  tall,  and  the  bent  shoulders  were  broad; 
broad  enough  to  show  up  the  line  of  war-medals  on  the 
breast  of  his  orderly's  coat.     They  gave  the  new  scarlet 

p  2 


228  REX    ET   IMP; 

cloth  a  certain  personal  cachet  and  toned  down  its  official 
garishness. 

"  Come  here,  Rex  ! "  called  Horace  Alexander,  and  the 
child  rose  at  once.  Though  high-spirited  and  a  bit  of  an 
imp,  he  was  a  reasonable,  obedient,  little  chap  enough ; 
obedient  because  he  was  reasonable. 

'^  What's  that  you've  got  on  your  head?"  queried  his 
father  irritably. 

"It's  my  c'wown,"  replied  Rex  cheerfully.  ''Bisvas  cut 
it  out  for  me;  and  he's  goin'  to  put  b'wown  paper  to  make 
it  'weal  stiff — c'wowns  onghter  be  stiff,  'weal  stiff,  oughtn't 
they?  an'  he's  going  to  put  things  on  it  like  the  pictures 
in  the  papers,  an'  then  I  shall  be  a  'weal  King,  shan't  I?  " 

"  No,  my  boy  1 "  said  his  father  sharply.  "  Crowns  don't 
make  kings;  remember  that  always.     There  was  Charles 

the  First " ;  then  he  paused,  recognising  he  was  out  of 

the  child's  depth;  and  the  cult  of  the  weaker  brother  was 
not  often  forgotten  by  Horace  Alexander.  It  was  the  secret 
of  his  popularity ;  but  how  he  managed  to  reconcile  it  with 
his  passion  for  progress  remained  rather  a  mystery  to  some 
people. 

''And  what  were  you  doing,"  he  continued. 

"I  wasn't  doin'  nothin'  except  be  king,"  replied  the 
child;  ''but  Bisvas  was  doin'  '  durshan.'  What  is  a 
'  durshan,'  daddy,  'weally?" 

The  childish  forehead  was  all  puckered  beneath  its 
crown,  and  Rex's  father,  for  all  he  was  entitled  to  linguistic 
letters  after  his  name,  hesitated. 

"Sight,"  he  began,  "ur — appearance — ur — aspect " 

But  Rex  shook  his  head  in  disapproval.  "Bisvas  says 
it's  just  for  all  the  same  as  seein'  God — didn't  you,  Bisvas  ?  " 

The  liquid  Urdu  to  which  the  little  fellow's  voice  turned, 
echoed  through  the  sunshine  to  where  the  tall  old  trooper, 
risen  to  his  full  height,  stood  smiling. 

"Huzoor!  so  it  is,  without  doubt.  The  sight  of  a  King 
is  even  as  the  sight  of  a  God.  It  is  a  revelation  of  the 
Most  High." 

"Good  Lord!"  muttered  Horace  Alexander  under  his 
breath,  yet  with  an  amused  smile.  "The  child  will  grow 
up  a  feudal  serf  combined  with  a  feudal  lord,  if  we  don't 


REX    ET   IMP:  229 

take  care,  Muriel !    He  is  too  much  with  old  Bisvas — You'd 
better  take  him  with  you — or — or  not  go," 

His  wife  did  not  even  frown :  her  position  was  too 
assured  in  the  household  for  her  to  be  even  alarmed.  ''  Of 
course  I  must  go.  I  must  wear  my  new  frocks.  Besides, 
you  forget  I'm  President  of  the  Veiled-Women' s-Guild,  and 
they  are  going  to  present  a  casket.  And  there  isn't  room 
in  the  Hotel  for  Rex — I  was  lucky  to  get  one  for  myself  this 
morning — besides,  it  would  be  bad  for  him.  Of  course, 
when  you  were  going  with  tents  and  all  that  it  was  different  ; 
but  now  that  you've  been  told  to  stop — Really,  Horace,  it 
is  most  annoying!  What  can  it  mean?  There  is  nothing 
wrong  in  the  district,  is  there?" 

Horace  Alexander's  eyeglass  dropped  again.  It 
generally  did  when  he  was  asked  for  a  personal  opinion ; 
not  from  any  lack  of  decision  in  the  man  himself,  but  from 
that  habit  of  relying  on  collective  as  against  individual 
thought  which  distinguishes  so  many  clever  men  nowa- 
days ;  as  if  the  mediocre  mass  could  ever  outvalue  superior 
sense. 

"I  cannot  conceive  that  anything  serious  can  be  wrong," 
he  began,  then  paused  almost  pathetically  before  the  cer- 
tainty that  his  district  was  admittedly  the  best  managed  in 
the  province.  '' However,"  he  continued,  virtuously 
remembering  that  the  communication  which  stopped  his 
going  to  the  Big  Durbar  was  strictly  confidential,  "that 
is  neither  here  nor  there.     I  have  my  orders,  so  that  ends 

it,   and "   he   glanced   out   to  the   verandah  where  the 

^'durshan"  had  re-commenced — "I  suppose  Rex  had  better 

remain,  if  you  think  it  safe.     I  shall  be  very  busy " 

His  wife  laughed,  and  stooping  over  his  chair,  kissed  the 
top  of  his  head ;  it  v/as  a  trifle  bald. 

''You  dear  old  stupid,"  she  said  kindly.  "You've 
nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  wouldn't  leave  him  if  it  wasn't 
for  old  Bisvas  !  You  and  I,  Horace,  have  grown  out  of— 
what  shall  I  call  it— feudal  relations— but  we  can  understand 
them.  You  don't  suppose  I  leave  the  boy  in  your  charge, 
do  you?  No!  My  dear  man!  you're  not  up  to  it.  But 
Bisvas  !  Bisvas  was  your  grandfather's  servant  when  he  was 
a  boy,  and  he  swears  Rex  is  the  living  image  of  ^  Jullunder 


230  REX   ET   IMP: 

Jullunder  haba,'  whom,  I  verily  believe,  he  mixes  up  with 
Alexander  the  Great!  It  doesn't  do  the  child  any  harm, 
though  it  makes  him  a  bit  autocratic  nov/.  He'll  grow  out 
of  being  King  at  school.  And  really  it  is  a  pretty  sight  to 
see  him  with  his  bodyguard  of  those  marvellous  old 
dodderers  Bisvas  rakes  up  from  the  bazaar " 

''I've  seen  them,"  replied  her  husband  gloomily.  ''I'd 
have  sent  them  about  their  business  if  they  hadn't  been 
old  pensioners — and  in  uniform " 

Muriel  laughed  again.  "Such  uniforms!  But  they  are 
magnificent  to  the  child  and  he's  magnificent  to  them.  It's 
all  right,  Horace.  He  is  as  pleased  as  Punch,  because  I've 
allowed  him,  as  he  can't  go  to  Delhi,  to  have  a  sham 
coronation  here." 

"  My  dear  !  "  protested  her  husband ;  but  at  that  moment 
an  old-fashioned  buggy,  with  a  flea-bitten  Arab  in  the 
shafts,  drew  up,  and  Mrs.  Alexander  discreetly  withdrew 
before  an  official  visitor. 

Ere  five  minutes  were  over  the  new  comer  rose  from  the 
upholstered  chair,  went  to  the  four  doors  of  the  office  room, 
looked  round  for  possible  eavesdroppers,  closed  them,  then 
sate  down  again ;  for  John  Carruthers,  the  Superintendent 
of  Police,  was  of  the  old  school.  Pie  suspected  everybody. 
In  his  heart  of  hearts  Horace  Alexander  loathed  him:  or 
rather,  his  methods ;  but  he  had  to  admit  that  he  was  an 
excellent  police  officer.  Short  and  stout,  he  looked  as  if 
he  had  a  trace  of  native  blood  in  him,  anyhow,  none  under- 
stood the  ways  of  Indian  wickednesses  better  than  he. 

"This  is  serious,"  he  said  briefly.  "I  always  told  you, 
sir,  you  would  have  to  face  it  some  time."  Then  he  paused. 
"I  wonder  if  anyone  realises  the  relief  it  will  be  to  our 
force  w^hen  the  whole  show  goes  off  well — as  it  will  do  I 
But  there's  always  that  off  chance — and  here  is  one " 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Horace  Alexander  stubbornly  ; 
"it  is  unthinkable,  inconceivable " 

John  Carruthers  raised  his  shaggy  eyebrows.  "  Nothing, 
sir,  is  inconceivable  in  India.  There's  a  lot  of  lees  in  four 
thousand  years  of  civilisation.  So  long  as  it's  stagnant, 
well  and  good;  but  if  you  stir  'em  up — However !  you  don't 


REX   ET   IMP:  231 

agree.  And  this "  he  touched  the  confidential  communi- 
cation— '^has  got  to  be  seen  to." 

"  Yes  I  it  has  got  to  be  seen  to — wrong  or  right,"  echoed 
the  younger  man  firmly.  Outside,  the  sunshine  shone  in 
sultry  drowsy  peace ;  but  within  the  closed  ofiice  room,  the 
air  seemed  vibrant,  as  the  two,  mutually  responsible  for  so 
much  in  their  world,  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  in  perfect 
unanimity.  So  it  is  often  in  India  nowadays ;  something 
has  to  be  done  and  old  and  new  must  combine  to  the  doing 
of  it. 

''Hullo!  what's  up?"  asked  the  Superintendent  of 
Police  when,  having  offered  to  drive  his  ofiicial  superior 
down  to  the  city,  they  stepped  into  the  verandah ;  and  then 
he  smiled.  ''The  youngster  seems  to  be  enjoying  himself, 
eh!" 

Under  the  sirus  trees  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  drive 
were  drawn  up  five  old  men,  headed  by  Bisvas,  who  stood 
next  something  that  was  more  like  a  monkey  than  a  man ; 
for  Bhim  Singh,  even  when  he  had  been  the  most  swagger- 
ing havildar  in  a  Ghurka  regiment,  had  never  been  tall, 
and  was  now  almost  incredibly  shrunken  and  old.  But 
his  eyes  still  looked  out  sharp  and  bright  from  his  wizened 
face  and  his  military  salute  shot  out  smartly  at  the  sight 
of  the  masters. 

"It  is  all  old  Bisvas'  fault,"  excused  Rex's  father,  giving 
a  disturbed  look  at  his  son  and  heir,  w^ho — with  the  gilt 
paper  circlet  still  on  his  fuzzy  head — was  apparently 
drilling  the  ancient  warriors,  "I've  told  my  wife  that  it's 
a  mistake,  but  you  see,  Bisvas  looked  after  my  grandfather 
■when  they  were  kids  together,  and  so " 

"And  so,"  interrupted  John  Carruthers  with  a  chuckle, 
"you  have  the  most  valuable  asset  in  the  v^'orld  I    If  I  were 

you   I   would   encourage   it !    Good    Lord  I    man  I "   he 

forgot  etiquette  for  the  moment^ — "that  sort  of  thing  is  the 
safety  of — of  everything  " 

So  the  two  men  drove  off  to  the  ofiice,  to  confer  secretly 
with  other  good  men  and  true,  and  the  child,  with  the  gold 
circlet  on  his  fuzzy  hair,  stood  in  the  half  shade,  half  shine 
of  the  sirus  trees,  and  dressed  his  army  autocratically. 
And  the  old  warriors — there  was  Bisvas  who  had  fought  at 


232  HEX   ET  IMP: 

Sobraon,  and  Bhim  Singh  who  had  fought  everywhere 
indiscriminately  for  sheer  love  of  fighting,  and  old  Iman, 
the  hair  of  whose  body  still  stood  on  end  as  he  told  tales 
of  how  he  had  waged  war  for  the  Sirkar  against  his  own 
brothers  in  Mutiny  time,  and  Pir  Khan,  Yusufzai,  who  still 
talked  of  Nikalseyn  sahib  as  if  he  were  not  dead,  and  last 
but  not  least,  most  ancient  of  all,  a  nameless  fossil  of 
humanity  called  by  the  others  "  jBaba "  (father),  who 
bewailed  the  fact  that  he  had  not  been  at  both  sieges  of 
Bhurtpore — these  all  obeyed  the  child's  orders,  and  nodded 
and  winked  and  swore  that  he  was  the  living  spit  and 
image  of  ''  Gineral  Jullunder  Jullunder  Sahih  Bahadur,''  who 
had  led  them  to  victory  again  and  again.  The  smallest 
cavalry  officer  in  Jan  Kampdni's  army ;  but  the  bravest  and 
the  best  loved ! 


II 

Three  days  had  passed,  and  once  again  the  two  men  sate 
facing  each  other  in  the  tidy,  conventional  office  room. 
The  confidential  box  was  open  and  papers  littered  the 
table ;  but  the  hint  of  possible  trouble  remained  still  a 
mere  hint. 

''And  yet,"  said  John  Carruthers  thoughtfully,  "I  don't 
like  it.  I  told  you  about  that  temple  incident?  Quite  a 
trivial  affair,  but  in  my  experience — and  that  is  pretty  wide, 
sir — that  sort  of  thing  always  means  something.     But  the 

fact  is,  I  haven't  time "  his  bright  eyes  grew  restless— 

"to  unearth  anything." 

Horace  Alexander  smiled.  "  Because,  my  dear  fellow, 
there  is  nothing  to  unearth.  I  told  you  so  from  the 
beginning.  I  am  pretty  well  up  in  my  own  district, 
Carruthers " 

"  That  you  may  be,  sir;  but  pure  anarchism  isn't  a  thing 
of  districts:  it's— what  do  they  call  it?— a  zeit  geistl  How 
many  fools  do  you  suppose  are  in  your  towns  and  villages, 
sir  1    Well !  everyone  of  them  is  a  danger  if  there  is  a  good 


REX   ET  IMP:  233 

agitator  within  hearing.     Anyhow,  I  am  so  far  dissatisfied, 

that  I  am  going  to  propose  to  you  a  plan "     He  got  up 

as  he  had  done  before,  closed  every  door  after  a  good  look 
round  for  eavesdroppers,  and  finally  paused  before  little 
Rex,  who  was  sitting  in  a  corner  of  the  room,  playing  with 
a  pen  and  paper  and  some  red  and  black  ink  which  his 
father  had  given  him.  His  mother  havmg  gone  off  to  the 
Big  Show,  which  was  to  take  place  next  day,  the  little 
fellow  had  been  tearful  and  needed  consolation.  Now,  how- 
ever, he  appeared  quite  absorbed  in  his  occupation. 

''What  are  you  doing,  Rexl"  asked  John  Carruthers. 

The  child  held  up  a  round  of  white  paper  with  cabalistic 
signs  on  it. 

"I'm  makin'  a  medal  to  give  to  my  army,"  he  said  with 
importance.  "And  '  Wex '  is  to  be  in  'wed  and  so's  'Imp.' 
Then  '  et'  will  be  black,  don't  you  see  1 " 

The  men  laughed,  and  settled  themselves  over  the 
railway  map  which  John  Carruthers  spread  out  on  the  table. 

"You  see,"  said  the  police  officer  in  a  low  voice,  "the 

Royal  train  focusses  anxiety  according  to  these  hints " 

he  pointed  to  the  confidential  papers — "and  I  can't  help 
a  feeling  that  they  are  right.  I've  got  a  sort  of  second- 
sight  in  these  ways — perhaps  because  I  was  born  and 
brought  up  in  the  country — and  I  believe  there  is  something 
in  it.  I'd  ferret  it  out  if  I'd  time;  but  I  haven't.  So  why 
run  risks  ?  The  Royal  train  is  timed  to  run  the  sixty  odd 
miles  through  your  district  on  the  direct  line  between  three 
and  five  a.m.  to-morrow  morning — just  before  dawn.  Now 
why  should  if?  Why  shouldn't  it  do  the  eighty  odd  miles 
o£  the  loop  line?" 

"  But  that  would  bring  it  right  here— right  in  the  very 
heart "  interrupted  Horace  Alexander. 

"  That  wouldn't  matter,  provided  nobody  knew,"  came  the 
quick  reply.  "And  nobody  need  know — except,  of  course, 
the  railway  bosses.  Just  look  at  it  on  the  map.  Points 
changed  at  Barawal  Junction — then  straight  away,  past  us, 
to  the  northern  branch,  and  so  back  a  bit — only  a  bit — to 
the  main  line  again.  It  wouldn't  delay  them  half  an  hour, 
if  that " 

Horace  Alexander's  finger  traced  out  the  line  on  the  map. 


234  REX   ET   IMP: 

''But  the  direct  line  is  guarded,"  he  began. 

"Inadequately,"  persisted  John  Carruthers,  "at  least, 
to  my  mind.  Now,  by  taking  this  new  loop  you  are  safe. 
It  only  needs  a  telegram — for  the  trains  haven't  begun  yet 
to  run  at  night,  and  it  will  be  '  line  clear '  all  through.  The 
usual  pilot  engine,  of  course — so  no  one  need  know." 

Horace  Alexander  nodded.  "No!  poor  devils!"  he 
assented,  a  bit  irrelevantly,  "and  dozens  of  them  would 
have  rejoiced  to  do  '  durshan.' " 

The  child  in  the  corner  of  the  room  looked  up  at  the 
familiar  word  and  listened. 

But  the  men  were  too  much  immersed  to  notice  him. 

"Well,  it  may  be  wise!"  said  Horace  Alexander  at 
last.  "I  don't  agree  wath  you,  Carruthers,  of  course.  The 
whole  thing's  a  mare's  nest.  But,  as  you  say,  it  won't 
disarrange  anything.  The  Royal  train  will  be  up  to  time 
for  early  tea  at  Sonabad,  and  there  all  is  safe :  so  if  you'll 
drive  me  down  to  the  telegraph  office,  I'll  send  the  cipher 
myself." 

"H'm,"  said  John  Carruthers  thoughtfully,  "I  wouldn't 
cipher.  Don't  trust  'em  a  bit.  The  clerks  in  my  office  know 
'em,  I'm  sure.     Try  French — it's  safer." 

Horace  Alexander  laughed  a  superior  laugh. 

"  Mine  don't !  not  the  real  confidential  one.  Why !  I 
don't  suppose  you  do." 

"  That's  a  different  matter,"  replied  the  police  officer 
drily.     "However  !  it's  for  you  to  decide." 

"Yes,"  said  the  District  Officer  firmly.  "Well!  good- 
night. Rex !  I  shan't  be  back,  child,  till  breakfast 
to-morrow." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Daddy?"  asked  the  boy. 

"I'm  going  to  do  durshan,'^  replied  his  father  carelessly. 

The  child  rose  and  came  towards  the  table  with  shining 
eyes,  the  medal  in  his  hand. 

"Daddy!"  he  said,  "I  should  like  to  do  'durshan'  too. 
Mayn't  I?" 

His  father  shook  his  head  and  smiled.  "Impossible, 
Rex !  You  can't  ride  forty  miles  over  the  desert  along  a 
railway  as  I  shall,  can  you  1  You  wouldn't  like  to  do  what 
Daddy's  got  to  do  to-night,  I  can  tell  you,  young  man ! 


REX    ET   IMP:  235 

Wait  a  while  !    Your  turn'U  come.'"'    He  vras  busy  locking 
the  confidential  box. 

•'But  I  meant  here,  Daddy,"  persisted  the  child. 
''HereT'  echoed  his  father  carelessly,  ''Oh:  here! 
Yes  1  You  and  old  Bisvas  can  amuse  yourselves  with  doing 
dvrshan  as  much  as  you  like.  Now  good-night — and — and 
be  sure  to  say  your  prayers,  Kex."  He  stooped  down  to 
kiss  the  child,  and  as  he  did  so,  "Bex  Imp"  in  red  with 
the  et  in  black,  caught  his  eye.  "  Eex,  Imp,"  he  muttered, 
"not  a  bad  name  for  you,  though  you're  a  good  little  chap 
on  the  whole." 

And  he  went  off,  feeling  virtuous.  Whatever  his  own 
beliefs,  or  rather  lack  of  belief,  might  be,  no  one  could  say 
that  he  was  forcing  it  prematurely  on  the  weaker  brother. 
Perhaps,  however,  the  thought  that  his  little  son's  lips — 
which  had  never  to  his  knowledge  been  soiled  by  a  lie — 
had  begged  dear  God  to  take  care  of  his  Daddy,  was  uncon- 
sciously a  help  to  the  man  during  the  anxious  night.  For 
it  was  anxious.  To  be  responsible  meant  much  to  both 
those  men,  and  this  sudden  change  of  plan — though  it 
certainly  removed  risk — threv/  a  still  heavier  burden  of 
care  on  the  shoulders  of  those  two  who  had  suggested  it. 

Therefore,  when,  just  as  the  primrose  dawn  of  another 
day  had  begun  to  dissipate  the  shadows  of  the  night,  the 
Royal  train,  safe  and  sound,  steamed  into  the  station  at 
Sonabad,  Horace  Alexander  and  John  Carruthers  looked 
at  each  other  as  they  stood  on  the  platform  and  positively 
laughed. 

''That  nightmare's  over,"  said  the  latter. 

''I  always  said  it  was  a  mare's  nest,"  replied  the  former. 

"Well!  we  needn't  quarrel  about  it  now.  I've  handed 
over  charge  to  Evesham,  and  you  to  Coleridge,  and  that's 
all.  And  I  shall  be  gkd  to  have  a  cup  of  tea.  I've  been 
too  busy  to  eat  for  the  last  few  days." 

Half-an-hour  afterwards  they  were  in  Horace  Alexander's 
motor,  going  full  speed  along  the  Grand  Trunk  road. 

"We  shall  be  back  by  breakfast  time,"  said  John 
Carruthers,  whose  thoughts  ran  upon  food. 

But  Horace,  as  he  steered  his  way  past  the  long  lines 
of  lumbering  wains  laden  with  corn,  which  still,  in  India, 


236  HEX   ET   IMP: 

cling  to  the  roads,  despite  railways,  was  jubilant  over  his 
district. 

"I  told  you  it  was  all  right,"  he  said  finally,  ''but  you 
and  your  sort,  Carruthers,  can't  see  that  we  are  in  a  new 
age.     We  are  out  of  the  past " 

"  That  doesn't  look  like  it,"  interrupted  John  Carruthers, 
pointing  to  a  group  in  the  verandah ;  for  at  that  moment 
the  car  swept  easily  into  the  gateway  of  Horace  Alexander's 
house.  The  latter  frowned,  for  Rex's  army  was  awaiting 
them,  drawn  up  to  stiff  military  salute,  while  in  front  of 
them,  his  small  broad  face  full  of  smiles,  was  Hex  himself 
holding  a  box  in  his  hand. 

''We  got  it,  Daddy!"  he  shouted.  "We  got  it  all 
'wight,  and  the  men  'wan  away,  and  Baba-jee  emptied  it, 
because  he  was  the  older-est,  and  it's  all  quite  'wight." 

"  Good  God,"  cried  John  Carruthers,  leaping  out  of  the 
car,  his  eyes  almost  out  of  his  head.  "It's  an  infernal 
machine.     I — I — I — 've  seen — 'em — before — I — I " 

Horace  Alexander  turned  pale  as  ashes.  "  Put  it  down, 
Rex.     Gently — gently — but — but " 

Old  Bisvas  salaamed  down  to  the  ground.  "The 
Presence  need  not  fear.  The  child  did  not  touch  it,  of 
course,  till  the  poisonous  thing  had  been  emptied  of  its 
venom." 

"  But  how "  began  Horace  Alexander  helplessly. 

John  Carruthers,  however,  had  his  wits  about  him,  and 
said  in  a  low  voice,  "  Look  here,  sir !  This  had  better  be 
kept  dark;  for  the  present,  anyhow." 

Old  Iman,  who  understood  a  little  English,  nodded 
approvingly.  "Without  doubt  it  is  a  concealed  word,"  he 
said  suavely.  "And  so  I  told  Bisvas.  Therefore  none 
know  of  it  save  those  here  present.  So  we  had  to  do  often 
in  Mutiny  time  when  news  meant  much ;  and  Gineral-Jul- 
lunder-Jullunder-sahih-baliadur  would  say " 

The  police  oflScer  cut  the  old  man's  reminiscence  short. 
"You  have  done  well,  risildar-jee,''  he  said  curtly,  but  the 
praise  brought  an  unwonted  flush  to  the  withered  cheek. 
"We'd  better  hear  the  story  in  camera,  sir." 

So  the  five  old  v/arriors  filed  into  the  ofiice  room,  the 
doors  were  shut,  and  Rex  sate  on  his  father's  knee,  while 


REX   ET  IMP:  237 

John  Carruthers  carefully  examined  the  infernal  machine 
which  had  been  laid  on  the  table. 

"Paris,"  he  said  laconically,   "one  of  the  latest  sort. 

What  did  I  tell  you,  sir— anarchy  isn't  a  thing  of  districts." 

"Go  on,  Bisvasl"  replied  Horace  Alexander  evasively. 

"As  I  was  saying,  Huzoor,  when  the  Huzoor  left  to  do 

durshan  last  night,  Jullunder  Bdba  came  to  me  and  said, 

'  Bisvas !   get  ready   to   go   and   do   durshan  likewise ;   my 

father  said  I  might '  " 

"And  you  did,  daddy,  didn't  youT'  broke  in  the  little 
lad's  voice  confidently.  His  father  hesitated,  then  remem- 
bering his  uncomprehending  words,  nodded  and  held  the 
child  closer. 

"  So  I,  knowing  that  the  word  of  Jullunder  Bala  is  even 
as  the  word  of  a  King,  unbreakable,  said,  'But  whither, 
my  lord  1 '  And  he  said,  '  That  will  I  show  thee  !  Do  thou 
as  thou  art  bid,  slave  1 '  Now  the  night,  as  the  Huzoor 
knows,  was  dark,  and  I  grow  old.  So  I  bethought  me  of 
help,  lest  evil  should  befall.  Therefore  I  said,  '  Lo  !  it  is 
not  meet  to  go  without  the  Army.'  So  these  came 
willingly.  For,  see  you.  Protector  of  the  Poor,  we  are  all 
old,  and  the  durshan  is  even  as  the  sight  of  a  god — it  heals 
sin.  Therefore,  in  the  darkness  we  set  off,  and  I  wrapped 
the  chota  sahib  in  blankets  and  took  the  trich  lamp  and  a 

ternus  of  hot  milk  also " 

John  Carruthers  looked  up. 

"He  means  electric  and  thermos,"  said  Horace 
Alexander,  with  an  odd  sort  of  cackle  in  his  voice ;  some- 
thing seemed  to  have  risen  in  his  throat  and  prevented  his 
speaking  clearly. 

"We  carried  the  chota  sahib  by  turns,  seeing  there  might 
have  been  serpents  in  the  way,"  continued  the  old  man, 
"  and  made  for  the  railway,  since  that  was  all  the  direction 
Jullunder  Baba  would  give.  Then  Iman,  remembering  the 
old  tomb— the  Huzoor  will  remember  it  also,   since  there 

was  a  case  about  it  in  his  court " 

"And  the  Huzoor,"  broke  in  Iman,  "decided  virtuously, 
that  being  the  tomb  of  a  saint,  it  should  stand,  and  the 

railway  move " 

"Remembering  it,"  went  on  old  Bisvas,  "he  said,  'It 


238  REX   ET   IMP: 

would  give  shelter  to  the  child.'  So  thither  we  went,  and 
there  the  chota  sahib,  having  remembered  he  had  not  said 
his  prayers  as  he  had  promised  the  Huzoor,  said  them.  He 
knelt,  Huzoor,  on  that  slab,  lest  the  floor  should  be 
damp " 

"Yes,"  assented  the  child's  father  as  the  old  man 
paused.  Once  again  there  was  that  lump  in  his  throat. 
He  saw,  as  in  a  vision,  the  old  Mahomedan  tomb  rearing 
its  half-ruined  dome  so  close  to  the  railway — the  white- 
faced  child  praying  God  to  bless  everyone  he  loved,  those 
dark  faces  standing  round  reverently. 

"Lo!"  continued  old  Bisvas  gently,  "I  think  the  saint 
down  below  must  have  heard — Iman  says  he  did — for  what 
followed  was  of  no  man's  making.  We  were  all  drowsing 
in  the  tomb — 'tis  a  good  five  miles  from  the  Huzoor' s 
bungalow  to  the  railway,  for  all  it  goes  so  near  to  the  city — 
when  Baha-jee — he  hath  the  ears  of  a  mouse  still — said 
'  Hist ! ' 

"  So  I  looked  out,  and  there  were  men — five  or  six  of 
them,  on  the  line.  Then  it  came  to  me  what  the  ill-begotten 
hounds  had  been  doing  in  Bengal,  and  a  sort  of  fury  seized 
on  me.  So  I  crept  back.  JiiUunder  Baha  was  asleep  among 
the  blankets  on  the  tomb  slab,  but  I  whispered  the  others, 
and  they  unbuckled  their  swords  and  made  ready." 

The  faces  of  the  four  old  warriors  who,  standing  two  on 
one  side  two  on  the  other  of  the  speaker,  had  watched 
his  every  word,  were  a  study.  Exultation,  pride,  absolute 
satisfaction  showed  in  every  line  of  them,  and  the  lean  old 
fingers  gripped  their  sword-hilts  once  more. 

''Then  Baha-jee  gave  the  word — he  was  '  senior -or  fficer,' 
and — and — Huzoor,  they  ran  away  ! ! !  " 

Even  John  Carruthers'  chuckle  had  a  suspicion  of  a  sob 
in  it. 

"  And  then  !    Oh  !  hero  !  "  he  said,  "  what  then  1 " 

"  Huzoor !  I  looked  out  over  the  desert  and  far,  far 
away  on  the  straight  line  I  saw  light.  And  there  was  a 
faint  rumble  in  the  air.  It  was  a  train.  Mayhap  the 
chota  sahih  had  been  right,  mayhap  it  was  the  Train-of- 
Majesty !  So  I  turned  on  the  '  trick  lamp,'  and  there  it 
was  on  the  line— that  thing— it  had  a  string  to  it  that  lay 


REX   ET    IMP:  239 

on  the   rail.     And— and— Huzoor  '.   my  memory   fails  me— 
There  was  the  child,  and  there  was  the  train  1— I  had  to 

decide 

''  Then  I  cried  to  Iman,  '  Quick  !  the  cliota  sahib  I  Run  far 
with  him— far !- far : '     So  when  that  was  done  I  up  with 

my  sword  and  I  smote  the  string  that  lay  on  the  rail ! " 

he  paused,  then  went  on — 

"So  that  was  done  also;  and  Iman  brought  the  child 
back,  and  the  train  sped  past,  and  we  all  stood  in  a  row 
and  did  dursl,an  ;  though  I  know  not  if  it  was  durshan  or 
not,  since,  mayhap,  it  was  not  the  Royal  train  after  all." 

The  old  eyes  looked  almost  wistfully  at  those  two  men 
in  office,  but  the  child's  were  on  his  father's  confidently: 

''But  it  icas  the  Royal  train,  wasn't  it,  daddy  1"  said 
the  child's  voice,  and  Horace  Alexander's  answered 
huskily : 

"Perhaps  it  was,  Rex;  anyhow,  you  and  the  others  did 
dursJian.     Of  that  I  am  sure." 

Content  settled  to  those  two  faces,  the  old  and  the 
young,  and  the  ancient  warrior  went  on — 

"Then  there  was  nothing  to  do,  Huzoor,  save  to  come 
home  and  bring  the  poisonous  thing  with  us.  I  was  for 
sending  the  chota  sahib  on  in  Iman's  care  and  carrying  the 
thing  myself;  but  JuUunder  Baba  would  not  go  without  it. 
So  Bhim  and  the  Father  took  the  devil's  box  apart  lest 
it  should  kill  everyone,  and  with  Bhim's  kulcri  they  prized  it 
open" — a  faint  sigh  came  from  the  Europeans — "and  spilt 
the  witches'  brew  in  the  sand.  That  is  all,  Huzoor  1  Your 
slaves  did  what  they  could.  The  men  ran  away  so  fast,  it 
was  not  possible  for  us,  aged  ones,  to  pursue  them." 

"But,"  broke  in  the  most  aged,  "  they  were  dressed  like 
the  Huzoors — in  trousers,  and  my  sword  was  bloody,  so  I 
must  have  hit  someone." 

"And  so  was  mine,"  said  each  of  the  ancient  warriors 
in  turn. 

Horace  Alexander  cleared  his  throat. 

"Really  !  "  he  began,  "  I  scarcely  know  how  to  thaiik " 

"Daddy!"  said  Rex's  eager  voice,  "I  know!  I'm 
goin'  to  give  each  of  'em  my  army  medal  with  'TFecc  and 


240  REX   ET   IMP: 

Imp  in  'wed,  and  et  in  black  on  it;  an'  they'll  be  orful 
pleased — won't  you,  Armyl" 

''  Huzoor  !  "  The  old  arms  were  stiff  in  salute,  and  then 
the  oldest  voice  struck  up  quaveringly.  "  Lo  !  sahihdnl  it 
is  enough  for  us  that  we  have  done  durshan  ere  death.  It 
brings  contentment,  even  though  both  sieges  of  Bhurtpore 
is  denied  to  some  of  us." 

As,  led  by  Rex,  they  marched  out  to  the  verandah,  the 
two  officials  looked  at  one  another. 

But  they  said  nothing  for  a  minute.  Then  John  Car- 
ruthers  burst  out: 

"  Damn  the  cipher  !  I  told  you  it  wasn't  safe.  Look  here, 
sir,  we  must  keep  this  quiet  for  the  time." 

Horace  Alexander  nodded. 


THERE  AROSE  A  MAN 


This  was  one  of  the  many  stories  which  Nathaniel  James 
Craddock  told  me  in  the  cab  of  his  engine  while  we  used 
to  go  up  and  down  that  ribbon  of  red  brick  metalling  edged 
with  steel  which  was  slowly  laying  itself  out  over  a  wide 
sandy  desert. 

Some  of  these  were  tragic,  some  comic,  some  betwixt 
and  between;  but  most  of  them  were  worth  the  re-telling, 
especially  as  told  by  him.  But  the  discursi\eness  of  his 
method  does  not  lend  itself  to  print,  so  they  all  suffer  in 
the  process;  even  though,  as  I  write,  I  seem  to  hear  the 
steady  grind  of  the  engine,  to  feel  the  fine  fretting  of  a 
sand  storm  on  my  cheek,  and  see  the  clear  blue  eyes  looking 
at  me  with  a  keenness  which  always  came  as  a  surprise  out 
of  that  bleared  dissipated  face. 

"It  was  ^arter  I  'ad  that  peep  o'  the  Noo  Jerusalem,  sir, 

at  the  bottom  o'  the  King's  Well,  'as  I  come  upon  pore  old 

'Oneyman.     I  was  a  bit  on  the  loose,  you  see,  sir;  them 

sort  o'  peeps  wakes  up  the  spiritooal  nater  o'  a  man,  an' 

it's  heads  I  win,  tails  you  lose,  if  'e  takes  to  prayers  or  to 

drink.     I  tuk  to  the  latter  " — here  he  gave  a  slight  cough, 

and  added  gently — ''more  nor  usual.     An'  so  I  come  across 

'Oneyman.     'E'd  'ad  a  peep  o'  hell,  sir,  for  'e'd  seen  'is 

wife's  dead  body  lyin'  where  he'd  left  'er  safe  an'  sound 

waitin'  for  'er  baby  to  be  born  in  doo  time."     There  was 

always  a  biblical  twang  about  Craddock' s  recitations  which 

gave  them  a  mournfully  dignified  tone.     '"E  'ad  friends  in 

'igh  places,  sir,  an'  one  o'  them,  w'en  he  come  through  'is 

brain  fever,  made  'im  Conservancy  Inspector  dov/n  Bandelk- 

hand  way.     It  wasn't  the  place   for   'im.     They  was  wot 

they    call    Suckties,    sir,    down    there,    though    there   was 

precious  little  o'  the  babe  an'  sucklin'  about  their  methods, 

but  contrariwise,  battle  an'  murder  an'  sudden  death.     They 

was  for  ever  killin'  goats  an'  kids,  an'  smearin'  ole  Mother 

Kali  with  blood — never  knew  such  chaps  for  paintin'  the 

town  red  !     So  the  Khysh-hoo  sahih*  as  they  call  him  in  their 

topsy  turvey  way,  since  it  weren't  perfoom  but  real  stinks 

*  Pleasant  smell. 

Q  2 


244  THERE  AKOSE   A  MAN 

down  by  them  temple  steps,  couldn't  never  forget  the  sights 
he  see  in  Mutiny  time.  When  'e  was  in  'is  cups,  'e'd  sit 
an'  cry  about  it;  for  'e  was  a  little  bit  of  a  man,  sir,  the 
smallest  man  as  ever  I  see,  an'  all  wrinkled  like  an' 
wizened;  just  for  all  the  world  the  same  as  the  monkeys 
as  used  to  come  down  in  crowds  on  feast  days,  an'  leg  it 
with  the  orferings  folk  used  to  bring  to  ole  Mother  KMi. 
That's  'ow  'Oneyman  come  on  reduction,  as  the  sayin'  is; 
tho',  pore  chap,  them  as  look  on  'is  face  might  a-seen  that 
'e  wasn't  for  long;  not  even  if  they'd  made  'im  Guv'ner- 
General-in-Council ;  for  what  with — savin'  your  presence, 
sir — a  galloping  consumption,  both  o'  drink  an'  lungs,  'e 
was  wearin'  away  like  snowdrifts  in  summer."  Here 
Craddock  paused  to  whistle  a  familiar  tune.  ''  Beg  pardin, 
sir,  but  it  comes  home  to  me  so,  for  he  was  awful  fond  of 
'is  wife.  Well!  whether  it  was  'is  name — 'Oneyman,  you 
know,  sir,  being  the  God  o'  monkeys* — or  whether  it  was  'is 
nater,  he  was  uncommon  kind  to  the  hunder  logue.  Used  to 
say  they  was  the  only  Christians  in  the  place,  'cos  they 
wouldn't  'ave  no  meat  offered  to  hidols,  sir.  An'  it's  true 
as  gospel,  sir,  they  wouldn't.  You  should  a'  seen  them 
waitin'  in  the  trees,  and  hover  the  arches  an'  crocketty 
things  on  the  temples,  while  three  or  four  smug  Brahmins  was 
going  the  rounds  with  a  party  o'  country  folk,  full  up  o'  sugar 
candies,  an'  parched  rice,  an'  platters  o'  curds  to  leave  at 
each  'oly  spot.  It  was  a  rare  sight ;  for,  you  see,  the  monkeys 
were  'oly  too,  an'  the  priests  dursn't  even  'eave  a  brick  at  'em. 

"  They  'ad  just  to  lump  it  when  the  beasts  'oofed  away 
with  all  the  best  things  afore  their  very  eyes.  An' 
'Oneyman  used  to  amoose  himself  of  an  evening  by  sittin' 
on  the  steps  an'  larfin'  fit  to  split,  I  told  'im  it  weren't 
perlite ;  but  there !  it  ain't  no  use  talkin'  to  a  man  as  has 
seen  'is  wife  lyin'  dead. 

''  Then  one  day  an  ole  buck  monkey  'oofed  it  with  a  bag 
of  rupees,  an'  dropped  it,  as  'e  was  climbin'  a  tree,  above 
' Oneyman' s  'ead.  And  'Oneyman,  being  in  no  state  to 
know  'is  own  'and,  much  less  wot  it  'eld,  gathered  some  of 
'em  up,  an'  swore  'e'd  keep  'em.     That's  'ow  it  was.     So  *e 

*  Hanooman. 


THERE  AROSE   A  MAN  245 

got  the  sack :  though  anyone  as  had  eyes  might  a-seen  it  was 
the  weddin'  garment  o'  a  shroud  he  was  wantin',  pore  chap. 

''I  was  runnin'  ballast  then  on  a  bit  o'  new  line  that  was 
cuttin'  its  way  through  jungle  land,  yard  by  yard  an'  inch 
by  inch.    It  give  one  a  sorter  shock,  sir,  every  day,  as  I 
come  up  with  my  trucks,  to  find  the  engine  goin'  so  much 
further,   an'  yet  to  get  'eld  up  at  last  by  the  same  ole 
blocking  o'  trees  an'  creepers  an'  butterflies  an'  all  that. 
Seemed  as  though  there  wasn't  nothin'  else  before  one,  and 
as  if  it  wasn't  no  use  trying  to  get  through  with  it.     But 
they  give  me  good  wage,  specially  after  they  tuk  to  runnin' 
o'  nights  too,  so  I  was  able  to  put  my  hand  into  my  breeches 
pocket  when  'Oneyman   said,    'You  don't  'appen  to   'ave 
a  five-rupee  about  you,  do'ee  Craddock,  for  I  ain't  got  a 
feather   to   fly   with.'      Then   my    stoker    tuk    sick   an'    I 
managed  ter  get  'Oneyman  as  local  demon.    It  didn't  'urt 
no  one,  you  see,  sir,  for  I  done  both  works  without  turnin' 
more  'airs  than  'ad  to  turn  with  two  shirts,  one  dryin'  the 
other;  an'  it  give  'Oneyman  time  to  die  respectable  an' 
quiet  like  at  the  back  o'   the  lamp  room  in  the  junction 
where  I  'ad  my  diggings.     Not  that  it  was  much  of  a  '  quiet 
and  secluded  'ome  for  an  invalid,'  sir,  specially  after  orders 
come  to  push  on  the  work  as  much  as  may  be  before  His 
Honner  the  Guv'ner  or  some  such  bigwig,  I  disremember 
which,  come  on  tower.     Still,  'e  got  a  sight  better,  an'  I 
used  to  tote  'im  about  as  stoker  up  an'  down  the  line,  an' 
many  a  time  as  'e  see  me  'angin'  out  my  shirt  to  dry,  'e'd 
say,  pitiful  like,  'It  had  ought  ter  be  mine;  but  I'd  do  as 
much  for  Nathaniel  James  Craddock  if  I  could. '    And  he  done 
it,  sir,  in  the  end,  for  I  should  a'  lost  my  billet  but  for  'im. 

''This  is  'ow  it  'appened.  The  monkeys  weren't  no 
better  after  'Oneyman  left,  but  rather  the  Avorse.  They 
was  more  Christian-like  than  ever,  an'  wouldn't  'ave  no 
bowings  down  in  the  house  of  Rumnings.  It  got  so  bad  as 
the  Suckties  couldn't  stand  'em  no  more;  but  it  was  some 
leeches  as  a  down-country  man  brought  as  done  the  trick 
at  last.  I  don't  mean  proper  blood  leeches,  sir,  but  them 
whited-sepulcre-the-other-way-round  fruits  as  is  marocky 
leather  outside,  an'  my  golly  \  in— Well !  the  'ead  bottle- 
washer  Brahman,  'im  as  they  called  the  Gossoon— though 


246  THERE   AROSE  A  MAN 

w'y,  I  can't  say,  since  the  only  gossoon  I  ever  'eard  tell 
on  was  a  Hirish  gentleman  in  the  Colleen  Bawn — ^was  dead 
on  leeches — 'e  was  a  real  blood  leech  'imself,  if  you  like — 
but,  though  'e  kep  'is  eye  on  them  all  the  time  'e  was 
palavering  away  about  Mai  Kali  an'  Shiv-jee,  the  ole  buck 
monkey  was  too  much  for  'im,  an'  'e  'ad  nothin'  but  the 
marocky  leather  trimmings  as  come  floatin'  down  peaceful- 
like  on  'is  bald  'ead  and  big  stummick  as  he  stud  dancin' 
with  rage  while  lunder-jec  was  eatin'  the  my  golly. 

"  That,  as  I  said,  done  the  trick.  There  was  a  gold- 
printed  letter  come  from  Mai  Kali  ter  say  she  was  lonesome 
away  in  the  jungles  without  'er  Hunooman — or  some  such  rot. 
Then  'is  Honner  the  bigwig  was  coming,  an'  so  on,  an'  so 
on.  It  ain't  'ard  to  do  that  sort  o'  thing,  sir,  w'en  you 
don't  have  no  Ten  Commandments  an'  everyone  is  so 
accustomed  to  lying  that  it  don't  strike  'em  as  odd. 

''How  they  done  it,  I  don't  know.  All  I  know  is  that 
one  moonlick  night  I  saw  the  signal  against  me  as  I  was 
running  through  to  the  junction  with  sand  I'd  bin  far  to 
fetch.  And  I  didn't  like  it.  I'd  bin  away  two  days  without 
'Oneyman,  and  bein'  a  bit  lonesome  I'd  perraps  had  a 
drop  too  much.  Or  perraps  it  was  the  moonlick  night  as 
done  it."  Here  Craddock's  voice  took  on  a  hushed  tone. 
''It  wasn't  like  the  Noo  Jerusalem,  sir,  or  them  yaller 
bottles  in  the  chimist's  shop  as  I  used  to  think  was  'eaven 
when  I  was  learning  my  dooty  to  my  neighbour.  There 
wasn't  nothin'  glittery  about  it,  nothin'  to  make  you  think 
of  the  far  away.  It  was  there,  right  down  beside  you  on 
the  engine,  cold  an'  clear,  taking  the  colour  out  of  every 
mortal  thing,  till  there  weren't  no  difference  a'twixt  earth 
an'  sky ;  till  the  pin  point  of  the  pole  star  wasn't  no  brighter 
than — than  the  safety  valve ;  for  I  keeps  'em  bright,  you 
see,  sir."  Here  he  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on  the  throttle. 
"  So  I  wasn't  that  pleased  at  'aving  to  'old  up,  specially  as  I 
was  a  bit  late  and  'ad  to  get  through  the  junction  afore  the 
Bigwig's  train  was  due — for  'e  was  comin'  that  night. 

"  '  Wot's  up  r  I  sings  out  to  the  station-master,  with  an 
oath. 

*''E  laughed.  'Two  truck  load  caged  monkeys, 
zoological   specimens   rate,    attendant   priests   in   charge, 


THERE  AROSE  A  MAN  247 

consigned  to  Mai  Kali.    We'll  hitch  'em  on  behind  in  no 
time.     Superintendent's  orders.'  ^ 

''  Well,  sir  1  it  was  no  use  swearin' ;  so  they  was  itcned 
up  and  I  went  on  full  steam,  givin'  them  Brahmms  a  bit 
o'  a  swing,  wot  with  the  'eavy  sand  in  front  an'  the  cages 
behind.  The  junction  was  all  lit  up  an'  decorated  for  the 
Bigwig,  flags  a-flying  an'  red  baize  all  along  the  platform. 
'E  was  to  dine  there,  and  the  refreshment  room  looked  A  1- 
a  reg'lar  spread,  I  call  it.     An'  there  was  the  Supermten- 

dent,  waitin'  in  'is  best  uniform "     Craddock  paused  as 

if  to  emphasise  further  remarks.     ^^'E  was  a  real  bone- 
silly  man-there  ain't  no  other  word  for  'im,  sir-bone-siUy 
down  to  the  last  drop  o'  marrow.   I  dunno  if  it  was  the  sight 
o'  'im,  or  the  drink  I  'ad  on  board,  but  I  forgot  to  choke   er 
down  in  time,  an'  we  went  over  the  points  at  a  rattlm  pace. 
''The    sand,    being    'eavy,    took    'em    steady,    but    the 
zoological  consignment,  being  light,  didn't.     It  ran  o^  the 
rail,  lurched  into  a  shed,  upset,   and  before  you  cud  say 
'knife'  there  was  a  matter  of  two  'undred  or  more  o    the 
specimens  let  loose  in  that  there  junction."  ^ 

He  paused  again  and  shook  his  head  sorrowfully.  it 
ain't  no  use  tryin'  to  describe  it,  sir.  All  you  got  to  do  is 
say  '  'ell  an'  tommy '  and  leave  it  alone. 

'"  Craddock  1'    shrieks   the    Superintendent,    as  I   stud 
laughin'  fit  to  split,  as  I  see  limber-legs  at  their  old^games 
'  make  that  brute  give  up  my  helmet  or  1 11—1 11  men 

'e  got  speechless,  save  for  bad  words,  sir.  You  never  see 
such  a  huproar.  Red  baize,  tore  to  strips,  f estoonmg  the  roof, 
'God  bless  our  Bigwig'  flutterin'  in  bits  like  a  paperchase 
down  the  platforms,  an'  the  mail  train  due  m  'arf  an  hour 

'"You-you  brought  'em  'ere,  you  scoundrel!  shrieks 
the  Superintendent,  'take  'em  away  again  or  111— ill  ^ 
an'  again  he  refrained  even  from  good  words,  sir.  But  e 
was  bone-silly.  Not  as  anyone  cud  do  anythmg ;  leastways, 
not  till  'Oneyman  step  out  of  the  lamp  room  m  is  pyjamas, 
lookin'  more  dead  nor  alive.  But  there  was  somethm  in 
his  hair,  sir,  as  made  me  feel  as  a  man  had  arose  m  Israel, 

for  all  he  was  so  small.  .-u       i, 

'"You  leave  it  to  me,'  he  says,  confident  like ;  then  he 
turns   to   the   bone-silly    Superintendent   as    stood    dumb- 


248  THERE  AROSE  A  MAN 

founded,  staring  at  'im  as  if  'e  were  Lazarus  noo  raised. 
'  There's  five  an'  twenty  minutes  yet,  sir,'  he  says,  'afore  His 
Honner's  train's  doo.  On  my  honner  as  Josiah  'Oneyman,  I'll 
'ave  'em  safe  out  by  then — only  I  won't  'ave  no  one  a-inter- 
fering — everyone's  got  to  obey  my  borders,  and  mine  honly.' 

"The  bone-silly  one  hadn't  a  word  to  say,  there  was 
somethin'  so  awful  majestic  about  the  little  man  in  'is 
pyjamas,  pore  chap. 

"  Lordy,  sir!  you  should  'ave  'eard  him  next  with  they 
Suckti  Brahmins  as  was  rubbing  their  bruises  an'  calling 
on  Mai  K^li  for  assistance. 

'''She  ain't  in  it,  sonnies,  nor  the  chaps  as  you  bam- 
boozle, neither/  he  said,  said  he.  'It's  you  as  'ave  to  make 
a  offerin'  yourselves  this  time,  so  it'll  make  a  'ole  in  your 
pockets  as  well  as  your  stummicks,  my  boys.  An'  it's  no  use 
your  saying  you  ain't  got  no  rupees — your  credit's  good 
enough  for  that.'  An'  here  he  waved  'is  'and,  sir,  to  the 
row  o'  sweetmeat-sellers'  booths  and  stalls  as  was  sot  just 
outside  the  iron  railings.  You  seen  'em,  sir.  You  know 
'ow  they  looks  at  night.  Harf  a  dozen  trays  piled  up  full 
o'  treacle  stuff  an'  greese,  with  a  hoil  hutti  flaring  an' 
smoking  on  the  top  of  a  pile  o'  their  beastly  toffee  an' 
dribbling  through  it  to  give  the  dead  flies  a-stickin'  to  it 
a  flavour.  Yes!  you've  seen  the  '  met-aiy-yen-shee-yen'  " — 
here  he  gave  an  excellent  rendering  of  the  sweetmeat 
sellers'  cry — "an'  so've  I — an'  'ad  to  eat  it,  too,  w'en  I  was 
'ard  put  to  it.  Well !  'e  got  the  lot  in,  brass  platters  an' 
all,  an'  then  began  the  rummiest  go  you  ever  see.  W'en 
I  was  a  boy,  sir,  in  quires  an'  places  w'ere  they  sing,  parson 
use  ter  make  us  run  through  the  service  so  as  to  get  the 
Amens  right  up  to  time — it's  'arder  nor  runnin'  a  mail  train, 
though  you  wouldn't  believe  it,  sir.  Well !  they  Suckti 
Brahmans  'ad  to  do  the  'ole  caboodle,  same  as  if  ole  Mother 
Kdli  was  sitting  like  a  spider  with  'er  eight  red  legs  an' 
harms  on  the  top  of  each  sand-truck.  For  you  see,  sir, 
they  was  standin'  fair  an'  square  on  the  lines,  engine's 
steam  up,  et  cetera.  It  was  a  rare  sight.  The  monkeys 
was  fine  an'  pleased  with  the  red  baize  an'  the  flags  an' 
the  motters,  but  the  moment  they  'eard  them  Brahmans 
begin  to  chant,  they  cock  their  tails  an'  listen,  an'  the  ole 


THERE  AROSE   A  MAN  249 

buck  monkey  'e  clomb  crafty  along  the  girders  so's  to  be 
ready  to  drop  down  so  soon's  he  could.  But  'Oneyman 
'ad  'is  views,  an'  wasn't  goin'  to  be  give  away  prematoor; 
80  'e  kep  a  Suckti  gennoflexing  by  each  platter  o'  tofiee 
until  every  truck  'ad  its  altar.  Then  'e  dumb  up  to  the 
engine,  an'  beckon  me  to  foller. 

"  I  was  standin'  with  one  fut  on  the  step  when  he  shouted 
to  the  Suckties,  'Hands  off.'    I  give  you  my  word,  sir,  it 
weren't  'arf  a  minute  before  them  trucks  was  covered  as 
black  as  flies  with  them  monkeys,  grabbing  an'  yelling  an' 
searchin'   out  for   met-aiy-en-sher-een  like   all  possessed,   for 
they  were  main  hungry,  'avin'  bin  shut  up  all  the  arter- 
noon.     So  there  was  our  chanst,  an'  I  was  just  leapin'  in 
to  put  on  steam,  w'en  that  bone-silly  ass  of  a  Superinten- 
dent says,  says  'e,  'You  'aven't  got  the  baton.'     An'  sure 
'nuff  I  'adn't.     For  it  was  a  single  line,  you  see,  sir,  an'  we 
'ad  to  run  a  mile  or  two  through  a  signal  station  afore 
branchin'   off.     Of  course,  I  didn't  ought  to  'ave  noticed 
'is  remark,  but  took  the  chance ;  but  there  it  is  '.    I  was 
a  bit  on,  an'  I'd  laughed  fit  to  split  my  sides,  let  alone 
my  'ead.     So  I  putt  down  my  fut  agin,  an'  made  to  go  fetch 
it,  when  the   engine  she   gave   a  screech   an'   started  full 
speed.     Whether    'Oneyman    thought    I    was    aboard,    or 
whether  he  thought  'e  'ad  no  time  to  lose,  I  never  knew, 
for   after  that   'twas  no  laughin'   matter,   I  can  tell  you. 
But  there  w^asn't  much  time,  for  as  I  run  down  the  platform 
to  'urry  up  the  baton,  I  see  some  o'  the  platters  nigh  empty 
already,  an'  they  monkeys  looking  as  if  they  were  makin' 
ready  to  'oof  it.     So  when  the  screech  come  I  turn  back; 
but  I  was  too  late.     She  'ad  ten  mile  an  hour  on  her  afore 
I  lep  upon  the  back  buffer,   seeing  there  wasn't  no  other 
way   o'    getting    along.     An'    then,    sir "— Craddock    drew 
his  hand  over  his  mouth,  thoughtfully— "  what  come  next 
sobered  me  in  a  jif  y.     Talk  o'  the  ride  to  Khiva !  it  wasn't 
in  it  to  the  ride  I  'ad  on  the  back  buffer  o'  those  sand 
tmcks!    Thirty,  forty,  fifty  mile  an  hour,  trundlin'  along 
a  consignment  of  A  1  devils  from  the  nethermost  'ell.    It  was 
'arf  fright  with  them,  sir,  an'  'arf  fury.     As  we  scud  past  the 
signal  station,  full  speed,  I  see  the  habu  fall  on  'is  face,  an' 
cry  'dohai!  dohai! '  as  if  'twere  the  Day  o'  Judgment. 


250  THERE  AROSE  A  MAN 

^' An'  then,  sir,  I  begun  to  think  o'  that  blockin'  o'  trees 
an'  creepers  an'  butterflies,  as  was  sure  to  crop  up  some- 
where, closer  or  furder,  and  to  wonder  if  'Oneyman  knew 
w'en  to  put  on  the  brake ;  for  'e  was  only  a  stoker  an'  not 
one  at  that.  Lordy,  sir,  we  must  a-bin  a  queer  sight, 
rushin'  through  the  moonlick  night,  with  the  engine  flarin' 
fit  to  bust,  a  full  cargo  of  devils  from  'ell  dancin'  an' 
whoopin'  an'  'owlin'  like  all  possessed,  an'  Nathanial  James 
Craddock  astride  the  hoff  buffer.  I  tell  you,  sir,  if  any  one 
'ad  said  'whip  be'ind,'  I'd  a-got  down;  but  I  didn't  want 
to  leave  pore  old  'Oneyman  off  my  own  bat. 

"  So  there  we  were ;  but  the  little  fireflies  didn't  seem 
to  care.  I  see  'em  from  the  buffer  as  we  flew  past,  eddyin' 
up  an'  down,  an'  round  an'  round,  just  twinklin'  among  the 
trees  like  the  stars  up  aloft — just  as  unreasonable-like  an' 
careless  as  if  there  wasn't  nothin'  to  worry  about  in  this 
world — and  there  ain't,  sir,  since  all  flesh  is  grass,  as  the 
man  said  to  the  vegetarian.  And  then  we  come  to  the 
beginning  of  the  end  o'  the  line,  but  there  weren't  no 
slackenin'  down  o'  steam ;  so  I  prepare  to  jump 

''An'  jump  I  did.  When  I  come  to  myself  the  moonlick 
was  as  peaceful  as  the  grave.  The  engine  'ad  cooled  down, 
an'  there  weren't  no  sign  o'  life  anywhere.  Only  a  'eap  of 
wreckage.  I  found  pore  old  'Oneyman  lying  dead,  chucked 
clean  out  o'  the  cab.  'E  'adn'tno  mark  on  'im,  an'  somehow  it 
seemed  to  me  as  if  'e  'ad  died  natural  afore  we  run  slap  bang 
into  the  blockm'  o'  trees.  For  'e  knew  enuff  about  stokin', 
sir,  to  turn  off  steam.    I  wouldn't  a-took  'im  on  if  'e  'adn't. 

"  But  there  weren't  a  sign  o'  them  monkeys,  sir ;  an'  wot's 
more,  there's  never  bin  one  seen  in  that  there  jungle  since." 

Here  Craddock  rose,  yawned,  and  passed  over  to  the 
cranks  and  handles  and  valves.  The  next  instant  an  ear- 
piercing  whistle  rang  through  the  dust-laden  air,  seeming 
to  set  it  a-quiver. 

"That's  to  rouse  old  Meditations,  sir,"  he  said  cheer- 
fully; "but  it  won't  do  it.  'E's  petrified  to  'is  place,  an' 
I  shall  'ave  to  lift  'im  out  o'  the  way,  as  per  usual." 

From  afar  I  could  see,  like  a  speck  upon  the  receding 
ribbon  of  rail,  an  immovable  figure  on  the  Permanent  Way. 


DRY  GOODS 


^'Mr.  Blocker,  sir,"  said  the  head  clerk  severely,  ''no 
one  whose  chest  measurement  is  under  thirty-two  inches 
has  any  right  to  beat  time  to  '  Rule,  Britannia,'  even  when 
it  is  played  by  a  German  band  in  the  street." 

A  small  man  whose  desk  stood  nearest  the  office  window, 
against  which  a  City  fog  lay  like  yellow  cotton  wool, 
blushed,  apologised  incoherently,  and  returned  to  fair 
general  averages. 

The  other  clerks  tittered,  since  this  was  a  recurring 
criticism.  For,  though  Alexander  Blocker's  chest  measure- 
ment made  active  patriotism  impossible,  the  heart  within 
it  was  full  of  that  sentiment.  This  was  unmistakable  when 
he  boomed  forth  solid  songs  of  the  past,  such  as  the  ''  Death 
of  Nelson"  and  the  ''Soldier's  Tear,"  in  his  big  solid  bass 
voice;  the  more  modern  ditties  about  "beggars"  and 
"gurls"  and  "kids"  and  "khaki"  being,  he  assured  his 
club,  "unsuitable  to  his  organ."  And  Alexander  Blocker 
was  very  proud  of  his  organ. 

^^  Never,  never,  never  will  he  slaves." 

Quite  unconsciously  his  dutiful  pen  punctuated  each 
quaver  and  semi-quaver,  though  in  his  heart  of  hearts  he 
knew  that  he  himself  had  been  a  slave  all  his  life.  First 
to  an  old  aunt  who  had  lately  died  full  of  self-satisfaction 
because  she  left  him  fifty  pounds  out  of  the  money  she 
had  saved  from  the  earnings  he  had  brought  home  to  her 
all  his  working  life;  and  secondly  to  the  head  clerk,  Mr. 
Mossop.     Such  a  kind,  good 

"Blocker,  please!"  chanted  the  office  boy,  showing 
round  the  glass  screen. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Fate.  Wondering  vaguely  whether 
this  unusual  call  to  the  innermost  Holy  of  Holies,  "Our 
Firm,"  presaged  dismissal  —  possibly  for  punctuating 
patriotism— be  went  meekly. 


254  DRY   GOODS 

And  he  returned  as  he  went,  to  sit  down  solidly  once 
more  to  fair  general  averages.  The  other  clerks  waited 
for  a  remark,  but  none  came;  so  the  pens  scraped  and 
scraped  until  time  was  up. 

Then,  when  the  office  was  empty,  save  for  himself  and 
Alexander,  Mr.  Mossop,  the  head  clerk,  went  over  to  the 
latter' s  desk. 

''We  can  finish  that  for  you,  Mr.  Blooker,"  he  said, 
"you  have  much  to  do." 

"Thank  you,  sir,"  came  the  solemn  reply,  "I  am  much 
obliged  to  you,  sir,  but  I  would  rather  complete  it  myself, 

sir,  before  going  to "     Then  decorum  gave  way.     "Mr. 

Mossop,  sir,"  he  continued  wildly,  "am  I  on  my  'ed  or  on 
my  'eels?  I  can't  believe  it — and  it  is  all  your  doing,  sir. 
I  feel  sure  '  Our  Firm '  wouldn't  never  have  done  it  if  you 
hadn't  spoken  for  me,  and — and — I  don't  know  whether  I 
am  on  my  'ed  or  my  'eels ! " 

As  a  rule  Alexander  Blooker  struggled  successfully  with 
the  accent  of  Cockaigne,  but  in  times  of  stress,  and 
especially  when  using  certain  set  phrases,  he  adhered  to 
it  as  if  he  felt  it  added  forcefulness  of  expression. 

There  was  a  suspicion  of  a  tear  in  his  pale  blue  eye, 
and  Mr.  Mossop  felt  inclined  to  brace  him  up  by  telling 
him  the  truth;  namely,  that  "Our  Firm"  contemplated  in 
the  near  future  closing  the  Distant  Depot  to  the  charge  of 
which  he  had  been  appointed.  Briefly,  it  did  not  pay: 
Germany  had  got  at  the  markets  in  the  way  that  Germany 
has,  when  competition  is  old-fashioned.  But  Alexander 
Blooker's  face  came  up  from  the  ledger  over  which  it  had 
bent  itself  for  a  moment  with  an  expression  on  it  that 
startled  Mr.  Mossop  out  of  contemptuous  compassion. 

"I  am  going  to  run  this  job  on  my  own,  sir,"  he  began 
eagerly;  "I'm  going  to  work  it  on  Imperial  lines " 

"  H'm — we  are  not  at  the  debating  club,  Mr.  Blooker," 
interrupted  the  head  clerk;  but  Alexander  was  beyond 
recall;  his  voice  took  on  the  blatant  tone  of  the  public 
speaker. 

"  Shrinkage  in  trade  follows  shortage  in  piece  goods, 
and  our  piece  goods  is  short.  Germany's  ain't.  I  don't 
say  that  'Our  Firm'  is  as  bad  as  most,  but  there's  a  cool 


DRY    GOODS  255 

quarter  yard  out  of  the  forty  far  rubbage  border  and  all 
that.  Besides,  mind  you,  some  of  'em  goes  as  far  as  three- 
quarters  ! — a  cooi-three-quarters  ! ! — and  why  not  1  If  you 
tike  a  hinch  why  not  tike  a  hell !  " 

This  was  apparently  quite  conclusive,  for  the  head  clerk 
hastily  changed  the  subject  to  the  necessary  preparations. 
But  two  days  could  be  allowed,  as  the  Distant  Depot  lay 
up  a  river  that  was  only  navigable  for  six  months  in  the 
year;  and  four  of  these  were  already  overpast.  It  was 
rather  a  rush,  but  the  present  occupant  of  the  post  had 
unexpectedly  accepted  the  agency  of  a  liquor  shop ;  and 
the  half-yearly  market  must  not  find  ''Our  Firm"  without 
a  representative.  So  the  first  mail — it  was  a  journey  of 
six  or  seven  weeks — must  be  the  one.  If  any  money  was 
wanted — ''Thank  you,  sir,"  replied  Alexander  Blooker; 
"the  fifty  pounds  of  my  own  that  my  aunt  left  me  will  do 
for  the  present:  by-and-by  perhaps " 

He  looked  mysterious,  but  he  said  no  more  to  anyone ; 
unless  he  whispered  something  to  the  glass  case  illustrating 
cotton  manufactures  in  the  Imperial  Institute,  which  had 
always  had  an  especial  fascination  for  him.  Despite  his 
hurry,  he  was  looking  at  the  peculiarly  broad  borders  of  a 
pile  of  piece  goods  and  muttering  under  his  breath,  "If  you 
tike  a  hinch  you  may  as  well  tike  a  hell,"  when  a  man  of 
gold  lace  and  buttons  found  him,  after  closing  time,  and 
hustled  him  by  corridors  of  Imperial  pickle  bottle  into  the 
Sahara  of  Exhibition  Road. 

Within  two  months  he  was — to  use  his  own  expression — 
"taking  down  the  shutters"  in  a  very  different  desert. 
For  the  "Distant  Depot"  lay  at  the  Back  o'  Beyont. 
Whereabouts  in  the  World-Circle  matters  nothing.  Briefly, 
it  was  one  of  those  advancing  tentacles  of  civilisation 
boasting  the  Mission-House,  the  Dry-Goods-Store  or  two 
and  the  Whisky-Shop,  which  carry  between  them  civilisation 
to  the  aboriginal.  Beyond  it  lay  desolation,  except  for  a 
single  telegraph  wire  which  spanned  the  void  towards  the 
west,  instead  of  following  the  tortuous  curves  of  the  river 
(now  sinking  into  sandbanks),  which  after  a  long  course 
south-eastward  eventually  found  itself  at  the  same  goal — 
the  sea-board.      There  was  no  town  to  speak  of;  only  a 


256  DEY   GOODS 

cluster  of  leaf-huts,  besides  the  Mission-House  and  Chapel, 
the  two  Stores  and  the  Liquor-Shop.  And  these  were  so 
close  clustered  that  to  Alexander  Blooker,  when  he  rose  to 
look  out  over  his  new  world  on  the  morning  after  his 
arrival,  it  seemed  as  if  the  bell  w^hich  was  being  rung  from 
the  Chapel  was  a  general  invitation  to  pray,  and  buy,  and 
drink. 

But  it  was  a  pretty  little  place.  A  real  oasis  in  the 
surrounding  desert  of  sands,  and  almost  bewilderingly 
green  amidst  thickets  of  banana  trees. 

A  tall  fat  man  showed  in  the  verandah  of  the  opposition. 

"  Guten  morgen,  mien  freund,^'  he  called,  with  superb 
indifference.     "I  gif  you  welcome." 

That  was  doubtless  Franz  Braun,  the  German  rival,  and 
Alexander  Blooker  hated  him  at  sight ;  but  he  kept  his 
dignity. 

''The  same  to  you,  sir,"  he  replied  stiffly,  ''I  trust  trade 
is  good." 

"It  is  goot  for  me,"  remarked  Franz  Braun,  with  an 
air  for  which  Alexander  Blooker  could  have  kicked  him. 
That  being  impossible  owing  to  their  relative  sizes,  the 
little  man  relieved  his  bellicose  feelings  by  beginning  on 
"  'Twas  in  Trafalgar  Bay."  It  still  had  for  him  the  charm 
of  novelty  to  be  able  to  beat  time  when  and  where  he  chose. 

"  Mein  Gott!"  shouted  Franz  Braun  excitedly  over  the 
w^ay.     "  Wass  fur  eine  Stimme !     Wunderhar!  " 

It  was  the  voice  that  did  it.  But  for  it  the  armed 
neutrality  of  the  past  between  the  rival  firms  might  have 
remained  in  the  future;  as  it  was,  an  hour  afterwards 
Alexander  Blooker  was  politely  but  steadily  refusing  to 
sing  a  second  to  the  ''Wacht  am  Rhein,"  although  Franz 
Braun  (who  had  an  equally  good  high  tenor,  after  the 
fashion  of  tall  burly  men)  wept  on  his  shoulder  and  called 
him  ''  Bruderlein.^' 

"You  must  to  the  pastor-house  this  evening,"  sighed 
the  big  creature  at  last,  "Fraulein  Anna,  who  is  to  the 
Pastor  Schmidt  daughter,  will  make  you  sing.  She  is  my 
verloUe.  I  will  to  her  be  married,  but  she  will  make  you 
sing." 

Nevertheless,  neither  her  yellow  hair  nor  her  blue  eyes 


DRY   GOODS  25? 

beguiled  Alexander  Blocker  from  his  fixed  determination ; 
but  they  sang  together  for  half  the  night,  and  the  memory 
of  Fraulein  Anna's  soaring  soprana,  as  the  notes  of  ''  Oh ! 
for  the  wings  of  a  dove"  floated  into  the  hot  air,  was 
with  him  as,  despite  the  lateness  of  the  hour,  he  set  all 
in  readiness  for  the  morrow.  Since  on  the  next  day's  doings 
much  depended ;  for  it  was  the  yearly  market-day,  on  which 
all  the  native  traders  from  far  and  near  came  to  buy  goods. 
Alexander  Blooker,  in  fact,  had  hurried  his  doongah  up  the 
sinking  river  so  as  to  reach  the  Distant  Depot  in  time  for 
it.  His  last  task  was  the  undoing  of  one  of  the  small  bales 
which  throughout  their  journey  had  been  the  objects  of  his 
special  care. 

"  It  you  tike  a'  hinch  you  may  as  well  tike  the  h'ell,"  he 
murmured,  as  he  cut  the  packing  threads  by  the  dim  light — 
for  he  had  refused  to  use  the  ''Made  in  Germany"  lamp 
of  his  predecessor.  Then,  with  a  sigh  of  satisfaction,  he 
held  up  the  top  one  of  the  hard-pressed  pile  of  printed 
cotton  handkerchiefs. 

''  That  ought  to  fetch  'em,"  he  said  admiringly.  Cer- 
tainly it  might  have  ''fetched"  anything  and  everything. 
To  use  heraldic  terms,  the  field  of  the  kerchief  was  gules, 
argent  and  azure,  arranged  in  saltire — otherwise,  a  Union 
Jack.  An  escutcheon  of  pretence  bore  the  Queen's  head 
regardant,  while  quarterly,  en  surtout,  were:  on  the  first, 
gides,  three  lions  passant,  or,  for  England;  on  the  second, 
or,  a  lion  rampant  within  a  double  tressure  flory  counter  flory, 
gules,  for  Scotland ;  on  the  third,  azure,  a  harp,  or,  stringed 
argent,  for  Ireland ;  on  the  fourth  1 — well ! — why  the  fourth 
field  should  have  been  charged  with  specimens  from  a  pack 
of  cards,  Alexander  Blooker  did  not  know.  It  was  a  blot 
on  the  scutcheon,  no  doubt;  but  two  days  had  not  sufficed 
for  the  printing  of  a  special  design,  and  this  was  the  best 
he  had  been  able  to  find.  Besides,  in  a  measure,  it  was 
true.  There  was  no  blinking  the  fact  that  even  British 
civilisation  was  apt  to  bring  gambling  and  drinking  with  it. 

The  next  day  the  whole  place  was  full  up  with  native 
traders  and  natives  generally.  The  first  sight  of  them  made 
Alexander  Blooker  wonder  why  they  were  so  eager  for 
piece   goods,   considering  how   little   of  them   they  wore ! 

B 


258  DEY   GOODS 

But  then  he  had  hardly  realised  that  beyond  that  northerly 
desert  lay  a  huge  tract  of  densely-populated,  almost 
unknown  land. 

Trade  was  brisk  over  the  way  at  Franz  Braun's  store. 
The  cheap  German  muslins,  guaranteed  full  length,  and 
packed  in  convenient  carriageable  size,  went  off  like  smoke ; 
and  it  was  not  until  the  best  lots  had  gone  off  that  a  trader 
thought  it  worth  while  to  give  a  perfunctory  glance  at 
Alexander  Blooker's  consignments.  Then  his  eye  fell 
instantly  on  the  heraldic  handkerchiefs. 
"  Sell,  how  much  ?  "  he  asked. 

Alexander  Blooker  shook  his  head.  "They  are  not  for 
sale,  sir,"  he  replied  loftily.  "They  are  a  gift.  An 
Imperial  gift  from  Her  Gracious  Majesty  the  Queen  of 
England.  Everyone  as  buys  forty  yards  of  English  stuff 
has  one  of  them  given  in,  free,  gratis,  and  for  nothin'. 
Him  as  buys  two,  has  three,  and  so  on — much  the  same  as 
parcel  post  rates." 

It  took  two  interpreters  to  bring  home  this  admixture 
of  patriotism  and  progressive  bribery  to  the  limited  brains 
of  purchasers,  but  when  it  did  find  its  way  into  their 
understanding,  the  effect  was  marvellous.  Before  the  sun 
set  Alexander  Blooker  had  to  conceal  his  last  bale  of 
handkerchiefs  against  the  year  which  must  elapse  before 
he  could  get  a  new  supply. 

"So!  mein  freund,"  said  Franz  Braun,  with  a  good- 
natured  laugh.     "It  is  well;  but  it  is  not  trade!" 

"It  will  be  trade,"  replied  little  Alexander  stoutly.  "I 
am  going  to  work  this  job  on  Imperial  lines." 

It  grew  to  be  a  joke  in  this  Distant  Depot,  as  it  had 
been  in  the  City  office  where  the  yellow  fog  lay  on  the 
windows  like  cotton  wool ;  but  here  Mr.  Blooker  had  liberty 
to  beat  time  to  anything  he  chose.  And  it  was  surprising 
how  the  natives  took  to  him.  He  must  have  spent  a  good 
deal  of  his  fifty  pounds  on  the  purchase  of  medicines,  for 
his  morning  dispensary  soon  out-rivalled  Pastor  Schmidt's — 
who,  in  truth,  was  growing  a  bit  old  for  the  work.  He 
had  lost  his  wife  of  late  years,  his  daughter  was  betrothed 
to  Franz  Braun  (who  had  a  promise  of  a  post  elsewhere), 
and  the  hearts  of  all  three  held  hope  of  change  in  the  near 


DRY   GOODS  259 

future  which  hindered  much  enthusiasm  in  the  present. 
Not  that  there  had  ever  been  much  of  it  in  their  lives; 
even  the  old  missionary  had  gone  on  his  way  coolly,   if 

conscientiously. 

Alexander  Blooker,  on  the  contrary,  was  always  at  fever 
heat.  He  managed  to  transfer  some  of  his  ardour  even 
through  the  lengthy  mail  to  ''Our  Firm,"  so  that  when 
the  river  route  reopened,  a  double  consignment  of  dry  goods 
took  advantage  of  the  water.  The  last  penny,  too,  of  the 
fifty  pounds  had  gone,  through  Mr.  Mossop's  agency,  in 
handkerchiefs  of  brand-new  design,  more  heraldic,  more 
patriotic  than  ever,  and  guiltless  of  cards.  Perhaps 
Alexander  Blooker  felt  that,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
British  civilisation  was  bringing  no  evil  in  its  train. 

And  it  was  not.  It  was  surprising,  indeed,  to  see  how 
the  Distant  Depot  had  improved  in  tone.  Franz  Braun, 
who,  deprived  by  the  difficulty  of  carriage  of  sufficient 
lager  beer  to  satisfy  him,  had  taken  to  over-much  whisky 
instead,  now,  greatly  to  the  delight  of  his  "  verlobte," 
satisfied  his  thirst  on  home-made  ginger-pop,  brewed  by  a 
recipe  of  Alexander's  aunt,  while  the  old  pastor  gave  in 
with  smiling  acquiescence  to  the  appropriation  by  Alex- 
ander Blooker  of  what  might  be  called  ''parochial  work." 
In  fact,  there  was  some  talk  of  building  another  shanty  as 
a  parish  hall;  for  the  little  man  was  distinctly  churchy, 
and  liked  things  in  order.  A  Temperance  League  and  a 
Band  of  Hope  had,  combined  with  an  enlarged  liver,  made 
the  liquor-store  keeper  take  leave  home,  and  Alexander, 
having  offered  to  run  the  business  until  another  man  could 
come  out,  was  now  conducting  it  with  a  curious  mixture 
of  conscience  and  commerce. 

So  the  eve  of  the  next  yearly  market  came  round,  and 
Alexander,  in  a  fervour  of  Imperialism,  actually  climbed 
up  the  telegraph  post  which  stood  in  one  corner  of  his 
compound,  and  nailed  a  pocket-handkerchief  to  it,  flag-wise. 

"So!"  called  Franz  Braun  from  over  the  way,  half- 
jocular  ly,  half-vexedly,  "  the  patrol  will  at  you  haf  damages 
when  he  returns." 

For  that  single  wire  which  sped  seawards  from  north 

£  2 


260  DRY   GOODS 

to  south  was  patrolled  at  intervals  by  a  staff  of  engineers 
from  the  former. 

"He  has  paid  his  last  visit  for  the  cool  season,"  said 
Alexander  knowingly;  ''so  there  it  can  stay  if  it  likes  for 
the  next  four  months,  at  any  rate." 

''I  wish  that  to  me  came  the  same  certainty  of  liking," 
growled  Franz  Braun,  ''but,  you  see,  the  Herr  papa  ails, 
and  the  verlohte  wishes  him  to  the  Homeland  to  take,  and 
I  would  also  go  if  I  could." 

A  vague  alarm  showed  on  Alexander  Blooker's  face. 
"And  leave  me  here  alone ^    I'm  glad  you  can't." 

The  idea,  however,  stuck  in  his  brain.  Supposing  he 
were  left  alone,  what  would  he  do  1 

After  he  had  arranged  everything  to  his  liking  for  the 
morrow,  this  idea  of  perfect  solitude  kept  him  from  sleep 
and  he  strolled  out  with  a  pipe  to  quiet  his  nerves  in  the 
desert. 

What  would  he  do  if  he  were  left  alone?  A  curious 
elation  mixed  with  his  natural  dread.  He  walked,  and 
walked,  scarcely  thinking  out  the  question,  only  feeling  it 
m  that  big  heart  of  his.  He  had  instinctively  followed  the 
telegraph  line  himself  so  as  to  be  sure  of  not  losing  his 
way,  but  now  he  started  at  the  sight  of  a  solitary  figure 
before  him,  visible  in  the  moonlight,  advancing  to  him,  and 
keeping  the  same  bee-line  swiftly  yet  stumblingly,  with  a 
pause  as  for  a  few  seconds'  rest  at  each  post.  It  was  some- 
one who  w^as  ill,  or  very,  very  tired. 

A  w^oman,  a  native  woman  1  He  could  hear  her  voice 
now  in  her  pauses.  Always  the  same  words  mumbled 
mechanically  over  and  over  again : 

"Save  me,  Queen -of -the -handkerchief.  .  .  .  Save 
me.  .  .  ." 

He  knew  enough  of  the  language  now  to  understand 
so  much,  and  he  waited,  watching  her  curiously. 

Across  the  last  gap  she  stumbled  towards  him,  gave 
one  surprised  look  at  him,  and — with  a  vague  effort  at  the 
same  words  as  if  he  had  been  a  telegraph  post — sank  down 
in  a  dead  faint. 

She  was  quite  a  slip  of  a  girl,  and,  after  a  time,  she 
came  to  herself ;  but  she  was  so  exhausted  that  it  was  past 


DRY   GOODS  261 

grey  dawn  when  Alexander  Blocker  managed  to  get  her 
back  to  the  telegraph  post  in  the  corner  of  his  compound. 
And  to  this  she  clung  pertinaciously,  much  to  his  annoyance, 
for  he  wanted  to  get  her  out  of  the  way,  and  find  who  she 
was,  and  what  she  wanted,  before  the  native  traders  began 
to  turn  up. 

His  remonstrances,  however,  were  in  vain.  Her  only 
reply  was  a  murmured  incoherent  repetition  of  her  first 
appeal: 

"  Save  me  1    Queen-of-the-handkerchiefs." 
And   every    time    she    said   it,    Alexander    Blooker    ex- 
perienced a  patriotic  thrill  down  his  back.     He  felt  that 
she  must  at  all  costs  be  saved— but  from  what  1 
The  dawn  grew  from  grey  to  gold. 

''Gott  in  Himmel!''  laughed  Franz  Braun,  coming  down 
very  early  because  of  something  he  had  forgotten.  '' Mein 
Alexander  mit  a  Madchen!     Ach!  fie!" 

''  Stop  your  silly  jaw  and  find  out  what  she  is  wanting," 
cried  Alexander  Blooker  fiercely,  ''or  help  me  to  get  her 
into  the  shanty  before  the  traders  come." 

"  J/cin  hrudcrlein,''  replied  Franz  Braun  solemnly,  ''when 
you  have  so  long  as  me  been  in  savage  places  you  will-not- 
to-redress-women's-wrongs-learn." 

Alexander  Blooker  svrelled  visibly.  ''That  sentiment  is 
made  in  Germany,  sir.  She  has  appealed  to  that"— he 
pointed  to  the  flag  pocket-handkerchief  on  the  telegraph 
post  which  was  waving  in  the  breeze  of  dawn— "  and,  by 
George!  she  shall  have  protection!" 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said,  not  even  when 
some  of  the  traders,  coming  on  the  scene,  recognised  the 
girl  as  the  daughter  of  a  powerful  chief  in  the  northern 
land,  who  would  be  certain  to  give  trouble  were  she 
harboured  by  the  Distant  Depot.  It  would  be  better  to 
send  her  back  in  their  charge.  How  she  had  found  her 
way  so  far  was  a  mystery;  she  must  have  followed  the 
telegraph  posts  day  by  day,  have  slept  in  their  shadow 
night  by  night. 

Some  vague  confused  sense  of  the  poetry  of  this— night 
after  night  sleeping,  all  unconsciously  as  it  were,  under  the 
flag  of  England— day   after  day  following  the   course   of 


DRY  GOODS 

light  to  freedom,  rose  in  Alexander's  throat,  and  half- 
choked  him. 

"She  shall  stay,"  he  said.  ''Let  her  father  come  to 
fetch  her;  if  he  is  in  the  right,  he  shall  have  her." 

*'My  dear  sir,"  quavered  old  Pastor  Schmidt,  **he  will 
not  time  for  explanation  give.  I  was  in  a  to-be-compared 
position  once.  I  will  not  be  so  again.  I  will  take  my 
daughter-ling  away.  I  will  go.  There  is  no  good  in  staying 
to  be  massacred  when  pension  has  become  due." 

It  was  all  to  no  purpose.  Alexander  Blooker  stood  firm. 
The  utmost  he  would  do  was  to  write  a  conciliatory  letter 
for  the  traders  to  give  on  their  return  to  the  girl's  father, 
saying  that  his  daughter  had  been  handed  over  to  the 
charge  of  a  suitable  matron,  and  that  he  might  have  her 
again  if  adequate  explanations  were  tendered  to  Her 
Gracious  Britannic  Majesty's  representative  at  the  Distant 
Depot.  And  here  the  great  temptation  of  his  life  came  to 
Alexander  Blooker.  He  would  have  loved  to  sign  himself 
''Consul  C.M.G."  No  one  would  be  the  wiser.  But  the 
sense  of  duty  was  strong  within  him,  and  he  refrained. 

This  being  so,  Pastor  Schmidt  incontinently  determined 
not  to  brave  the  certainty,  as  he  deemed  it,  of  coming 
trouble.  His  Society  in  the  West  was  prepared  for  his 
possible  return.  The  details  of  how  the  work  could  be 
carried  on  by  a  native  deacon  during  the  six  months  before 
a  new  pastor  could  arrive  were  all  settled.  Nothing  but  a 
half-conscious  feeling  that  to  retire  would  be  to  sign  his 
warrant  of  dismissal  from  what  had  been  to  him  his  life, 
had  kept  him  hitherto  from  decision.  Now,  the  river  was 
falling  fast;  they  must  take  their  chance  of  escape  while 
they  could  get  it. 

And  Franz  Braun  ?  After  two  days  of  moody  helping  to 
pack  his  "  verlohte's'^  belongings,  he  came  to  say,  not  with- 
out a  certain  tremble  in  his  voice : 

^^  Bruderlein,  I  also  go — so  far  anyhow — ^my  firm  said  so 
much  a  month  ago — to-night  thou  wilt  be  alone." 

There  was  not  much  time  for  Alexander  Blooker  to 
realise  his  position  until,  as  the  cool  of  the  night  came  on, 
he   stood  by   the   last  little   landing-stage   on   the   river. 


DRY   GOODS  263 

watching  the  Noah's-ark-boat  as  it  punted  its  way  slowly 
through  the  network  of  sandbanks. 

Behind  him  as  he  stood,  flared  the  red  glories  of  the 
setting  sun;  in  front  of  him,  the  long  stretches  of  sand, 
the  winding  gleams  of  the  shrinking  river  were  fast  losing 
each  other  in  the  purple-blue  shadows  of  coming  night. 
From  the  lessening  speck  of  the  boat  as  it  drifted  down- 
wards on  the  current  came  half-regretful,  half-joyful  fare- 
wells. The  native  congregation,  assembled  in  full  force, 
sent  after  it  wailing  outcries ;  but  Alexander  Blooker  was 
silent,  save  for  one  brief  ''Good-bye,  Fraulein  Anna! 
Good-bye,  Pastor  Schmidt !    Good-bye,  Franz  Braun  !  " 

The  sliding  shadow  of  the  boat  had  disappeared  into 
the  oncoming  night  for  his  short-sighted  eyes,  long  before 
the  still  savage  congregation  lost  it,  but  he  stood  staring 
on  where  it  had  been  long  after  they  had  gone  home  con- 
tentedly. Then  he  turned  suddenly.  The  red  had  almost 
faded  from  the  sky.  Only  low  down  on  the  horizon  lay 
a  band  of  what  Ruskin  held  to  be  the  highest  light— pure 
vermilion — and  against  it  he  could  see  the  telegraph  post, 
with  a  black  speck  that  must  be  the  pocket-handkerchief  of 
England  flying  at  its  peak. 

He  drew  a  long  breath.     For  the  first  time  in  his  life 
Alexander  Blooker  felt  that  he  was  not  a  slave. 


Six  months  after,  the  first  doongah  of  the  season  punted 
and  sailed  up  the  river  again.  The  Distant  Depot  was 
deserted;  but  there  was  no  sign  of  disorder  in  it.  The 
English  flag  still  flew  from  the  telegraph  post.  The  Pastor's 
house,  which  Alexander  Blooker  had  been  implored  to 
occupy  and  keep  in  order,  looked,  save  for  the  dust  which 
always  gathered  from  the  desert,  as  if  he  must  have  been 
there  but  a  few  days  before.  The  garden  was  ablaze  with 
flowers.  The  clusters  of  native  huts  had  disappeared,  and 
in  their  place  neat  streets  of  low  wattle  and  dab  dwellings 
converged  outwards  from  quite  an  imposing  edifice  with 
"Church  Hall"  marked  on  it  conspicuously.  The  liquor 
shop  had  disappeared.    Franz  Braun' s  dry  goods  store  was 


264  DRY   GOODS 

closed  and  the  British  one  removed  to  a  portion  of  the 
central  building. 

The  little  Mission  Chapel  also  was  utterly  changed.  The 
seats  removed  to  make  room  for  clean  matting  on  which 
the  native  congregation  could  squat.  Everything  western 
or  of  western  symbolism  swept  away,  and  in  their  place, 
ingeniously  adapted  to  their  present  purpose,  were  things 
held  sacred  by  the  natives.  Here  an  English  school  had 
evidently  had  its  quarters,  for  copybooks,  headed  in  a  neat 
hand  ''If  you  take  an  inch,  you  may  as  well  take  an  ell," 
were  found  there.  Also  a  few  chapters  of  the  New  Testa- 
ment written  out  in  the  same  handwriting. 

The  tiny  cemetery  behind  the  chapel,  surrounded  on 
three  sides  by  banana  thickets,  remained  unaltered,  save 
that,  just  under  the  east  window,  three  of  the  heraldic 
pocket-handkerchiefs  were  pegged  to  the  ground  in  an 
oblong. 

What  had  happened  1 

The  yearly  market  day  brought  vague,  inconsistent 
rumours  from  the  mouths  of  many  merchants. 

Nothing  was  known  for  certain.  The  '' Lord-of-Hand- 
kerchief  s  "  had  remained,  of  course.  It  was  said  that  the 
chief  had  come  for  his  daughter.  Nothing  had  happened. 
Only  the  Handkerchief-Lord  had,  as  they  might  see,  built 
palaces. 

He  was  a  Great  Chief.  The  people  simply  would  not 
live  without  him  when  he  died.  So,  at  least,  they  had 
said  as  they  came  through  the  villages  beyond  the  desert 
on  their  way  north.  How  long  ago?  Ah!  not  long;  they 
were  afraid,  see  you,  of  the  new  gentlemen.  They  preferred 
to  begin  afresh  elsewhere.  That  would  doubtless  be  his 
grave  at  the  back  of  the  chapel.  He  was  a  great  loss  to 
the  country.     No  one  gave  handkerchiefs  away  as  he  did. 

So  the  Distant  Depot  had  to  go  on  its  Avay  without 
further  details.  Only  the  traces  of  Alexander  Blooker's 
short  rule  remained,  and  the  new  inhabitants  who  soon 
gathered  to  fill  the  trim  walls  and  dab  houses  benefited 
by  them. 

One  day,  however,  when  almost  a  year  had  gone  by,  the 
new  pastor  found  that  the  oblong  of  handkerchiefs  in  the 


DRY   GOODS  265 

cemetery,  instead  of  being  worn  and  faded  by  sun  and  rain 
was,  apparently,  brand  new. 

Someone  must  have  renewed  it  in  the  night.     And  on 
the  top  of  it,  written  out  in  wobbly  round  hand,  was  the 
last  copy  Alexander  Blocker  had  set : 
^  '^If  you  take  an  inch  you  may  as  well  take  an  ell." 

From  which  the  Distant  Depot  inferred  that  it  was  his 
death-day. 


THE   REGENERATION   OF   DAISY 

BELL 


''It  is  quite  out  of  the  question,"  said  the  Adjutant, 
severely.  "Major  Primmer  has  formerlj^  complained,  and 
the  CO.  has  desired  me  to — to — to  see  that  the  nuisance  is 
abated " 

So  far,  regimental  discipline  kept  the  Adjutant's  risible 
muscles  under  control;  then  he  smiled,  for  he  was  more 
human  than  adjutants  are  wont  to  be  in  orderly  room. 
''And,  upon  my  soul,  youngster,"  he  went  on,  picking  up 
a  letter  which  lay  beside  him,  "  it  is  a  bit  hard  on  Primmer. 
I  can  imagine  his  disgust  I  H'm,  h'm — '  have  to  report ' — Ah  ! 
here — '..4s  usual,  I  woke  with  the  entry  of  my  tody-servant 
bringing  my  early  tea.  As  usual,  also,  I  lay  for  a  few  moments 
to  collect  my  thoughts;  hut  when  I  turned  to  pour  out  the 
beverage ' — good  old  Primmer — '  my  disgust  was  great  to  find 
Lieutenant  Graham's  so-called  tame  monkey — I  may  interpolate 
that  it  is  a  specimen  of  the  Presbytis  schistaceus,  a  bold  and 
predatory  tribe,  and  not  the  Presbytis  entellus,  a  much  milder 
race' — good  old  Primmer  again;  he's  nothing  if  not  exact — 
'  in  full  possession  of  my  tea-table.  The  brute  had  consumed  all 
the  toast,  save  one  crust,  which  I  regret  to  say  it  threw  at  me 
when  I  attempted  remonstrance.'  " 

We  both  laughed. 

"  Can't  you  see  Major  Primmer.  V.C,  sitting  up  in  bed 
with  his  eye-glasses  on,  in  a  mortal  funk,"  I  began,  trying 
to  brazen  it  out.  But  official  decorum  had  resumed  its 
sway  over  the  Adjutant,  and  he  read  on : 

"  '  I<  then  proceeded,  with  an  accuracy  irhich  I  cannot  believe 
to  be  entirely  self-taught ' — H'm,  Graham,  that  is  serious ; 
remember  he  is  your  superior  officer — '  to  imitate  closely  my 
method  of  pouring  out  tea.  This  is  peculiar,  as  I  invariably  put 
the  milk  in  first.  My  efforts  at  checking  the  lawless  brute  were 
again  quite  unavailing ;  and  resulted  only  in  the  deliberate  empty- 
ing of  the  scalding  hot  tea  over  my  nether  garments.'  " 

"Why  couldn't  he  say  his  pyjamas,"  I  groaned,  cap- 


270       THE   REGENEBATION   OF  DAISY   BELL 

tiously;  for  I  recognised  that  things  had  gone  a  bit  too 
far.     I  had  had  no  idea  Jennie  had  such  a  fund  of  humour. 

But  once  more  official  decorum  failed  to  respond. 

''  '  This,  I  may  add,  it  did  again  and  again,  until  the  teapot 
was  exhausted.  It  then  pouched  the  whole  contents  of  the  sugar- 
hasin,  drank  the  milk,  and  smeared  its  head  with  the  butter.  The 
latter  action  appeared  to  arouse  reminiscence.  It  repaired  to  my 
dressing -table,  brushed  its  hair  with  my  brushes,  used  my  pommada 
hongroise,  and  then  proceeding  to  the  wash-hand-stand,  nefariously 
laid  hold  of  my  tooth-brush.  This,  however,  was  too  much.  I 
rose.  At  the  same  moment  my  body-servant  providently  appeared 
with  my  hot  water,  and  the  brute,  jabbering  at  me  in  unseemly 
fashion,  made  for  the  window,  which  I  always  keep  open  winter 
and  summer.  I  have  already  requested  Lieutenant  Graham  to 
remove  this  savage  animal;  and  now  have  no  option  .  .  .'  " 

The  Adjutant  laid  down  the  letter.  ''It's  hard  on 
Primmer,"    he   said,   with   almost   superhuman   solemnity; 

''the   tooth-brush   incident   was "    he   resumed    speech 

after  a  brief  pause,  "  and  he  is  a  good  sort  is  old  Primmer." 

I  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact.  Only  the  week 
before,  when  we  were  out  in  the  jungle,  he  had  dosed  me 
with  quinine  and  taken  my  temperature  every  two  hours 
during  an  attack  of  fever  and  ague. 

So  Jennie  the  monkey  must  give  way;  but  what  the 
deuce  was  I  to  do  with  her'?  I  did  not  want  to  have  to 
shoot  her. 

"Give  her  to  Tootsie,"  suggested  the  Adjutant,  sym- 
pathetically; "I  heard  her  say  not  long  ago  she  would 
give  anything  for  a  monkey." 

It  was  a  brilliant  idea.  Miss  d'Aguilar,  familiarly 
known  as  Tootsie,  performed  the  arduous  duties  of 
spinster  to  our  little  frontier  station;  so  that  afternoon, 
before  going  on  duty,  I  rode  round  by  "  The  Forest," 
so  called,  I  presume,  because  there  w^as  not  a  bit  of 
vegetation  larger  than  a  caper  bush  between  it  and  the 
Beluchistan  Hills. 

I  found  the  young  lady  and  her  mother — a  frankly 
black-and-tan  lady  who  looked  as  if  she  would  have  been 
more  comfortable  with  a  veil  to  roll  round  her  fat  person — 
engaged,    after  their  wont,    in   entertaining   some   of   the 


THE   REGENERATION   OF   DAISY   BELL       271 

junior  subalterns  at  tea.  As  I  entered,  Tootsie — a 
sparkling  brunette  with  gloriously  startling  Titian  brown 
hair,  due  to  cunning  applications  of  henna  dye  (there  were 
traces  of  it  on  Mamma's  hands) — was,  in  a  high-pitched 
staccato  voice,  recounting  with  arch  gaiety,  her  impres- 
sions of  Calcutta,  whence  she  had  but  lately  returned. 
"Yes!  I  do  declare  the  men  are  just  sillies.  Why!  do 
not  believe  me,  but  I  asked  a  young  fellow  in  a  Europe 
shop  to  bring  me  flesh-coloured  stockings,  and  he  brought 
me  tan !    Was  he  not  a  silly  boy?  " 

The  pause  which  inevitably  followed  this  anecdote 
seemed  a  fitting  opportunity  for  somewhat  sentimentally 
offering  Jennie.  Had  I  offered  a  bomb  the  effect  could 
not  have  been  more  disastrous.  Miss  grew  crimson; 
Mamma,  purple  and  plethoric,  wondered  how  any  gentle- 
man could  keep  such  a  nasty  brute,  still  less  offer  it  as  a 

fit  companion  to  an  innocent  young  girl. 

Evidently  Jennie  had  again  got  herself  disliked;  how, 

the  junior  sub.  told  me  succinctly  as  we  rode  home. 

''You  see,  Tootsie  dyes  her  hair^and  henna's  a  bit  of 

a  lengthy  business.     They  don't  mind  me,  I'm  only  a  boy; 

but  she  has  to  have  it  plastered  over  her  head  for  hours. 

So  she  has  a  big  hat  with  a  false  bun  and  fringe  for  these 

occasions.     And  Jennie  got  hold  of  it  somehow  last  week. 

I  happened  to  be  there;   and,   by  George,  I  chevied  the 

beast  half  over  cantonments  before  she  would  give  it  up — 

she's  a  regular  devil." 

I  sighed.     Evidently  the  culprit  must  be  shot.     She  had 

no  friends. 

As  I  came  up  to  the  guardroom,  however,  I  heard  a 

song  being  lilted  out  by  a  tenor  voice  into  the  hot  dusty 

air.     The    refrain    of    London    sounded    odd    here    in    the 

desert  on  the  confines  of  civilisation: 

"Dy'sy,  Dy'sy,  give  me  yer  answer  dew, 
I'm  half  cry'sy,  all  for  the  love  o'  yew." 

''Yes,  sir,"  reported  the  sergeant.  ''It's  Dy'sy,  sure 
enough.     He's  in  agin;  more  often  in  nor  out." 

"What  for?"  I  asked,  a  trifle  regretfully,  for  the  man, 
nicknamed    by    his    comrades    Dy'sy    from    his    habit    of 


272       THE  REGENERATION   OF   DAISY   BELL 

perpetually  warbling  that  aggravating  ditty,  was  rather 
a  favourite  of  mine.  He  was  a  perfectly  reckless  rolling 
stone,  a  bad  shilling  of  about  five-and-thirty,  who  from  the 
way  he  had,  when  not  on  his  guard,  of  assimilating  drill, 
must  have  been  through  it  several  times.  But  over  his  past 
he  drew  a  veil ;  and,  indeed,  his  present  was  sufficient  for 
character.  He  had  come  out  with  a  draft  in  the  cold 
weather,  and  already  his  evil  influeDce  with  the  recruits 
was  notorious.  Yet  I  liked  the  fellow ;  he  was  a  first-class 
light-weight  bruiser,  out  and  away  the  best  in  the  regiment. 
I  had  taken  lessons  of  his,  and  his  devil-may-care  defiance 
had  been  attractive. 

''Same  as  before,  sir,"  replied  the  sergeant.  "Shindy 
in  Number  Three.  'Tain't  no  manner  o'  use  shiftin'  'is 
room.     He'd  purwurt  a  Sunday  School." 

Solid  truth  in  every  word !  Yet  the  light  blue  eyes 
which  met  mine  had  a  twinkle  in  them  that  softened  my 
heart. 

"If  you  are  such  a  cursed  fool,"  I  said,  as  sternly  as 
I  could,  "you'll  come  to  grief." 

His  face  took  on  sublime  innocence.  "Beg  pardin,  sir; 
but  it  ralely  ain't  fair  w'en  a  party  is  trying  to  do  'is 
dooty  to  'is  parsters  an'  marsters.  Them  young  chaps 
was  makin'  fun  hover  your  monkey  usin'  the  major's 
py-jammas  has  a  slopper;  an'  I  only  tole  'm  it  was  kind 
o'  disrespekful  like,  as  she  meant  it  hall  in  k'yindness, 
an'  bid  'm  hold  their  jaw.  That's  how  the  tin  dishes  got 
hinjured,  for,"  he  added,  with  great  dignity,  "I  won't 
'ave  no  slanderin'  o'  dumb  animals  as  can't  speak  up  for 
thesselves." 

A  gleam  of  hope  shot  through  me.  "You're  fond  of 
animals,  are  you?"  I  asked. 

For  once  candid  confidence  came  to  him.  "  Well !  I 
don'  know,  sir,"  he  replied,  "but  'twas  the  loss  o'  a  dorg 
as  fust  set  me  wrong."  He  gave  a  glance  towards  the 
sergeant,  who  was  discreetly  retiring,  and  then  went  on.  "  I 
was  but  a  young  chap,  just  gone  twenty,  and  the  dorg 
was  a  bull  tarrier,  sir,  as  good  as  they  make  'm.  S'yme 
n'yme  as  your  monkey,  sir — Jennie.  We  was  chums.  Then 
I  got  a  gel,  one  o'  the  yaller-haired  kind,  sir,  an'  I  was  a 


THE   REGENERATION   OF   DAISY   BELL       273 

fool  about  her,  as  young  chaps  is  apt  ter  be.  Well,  sir, 
I  'adn't  bin  just  steddy — no  real  'arm,  you  know,  but  sort 
o'  light  like.  But  I  settles  down  an'  begins  ter  screw 
against  gettin'  married.  The  yaller-haired  gel  was  livin' 
with  me,  sir,  so  as  to  save  time  like,  but  we  was  sure  to 
get  married  in  church  an'  go  hoff  emigrating  so  soon  as 
I'd  got  the  'oof.  An'  Jennie  w^as  to  go,  too,  for  she  an' 
me  was  chums.  Well,  sir,  there  w^as  a  big,  black  chap, 
coster  he  was,  I  licked  him  more  nor  once  for  'angin' 
round;  but  there!  females  are  built  that  way.  So  it 
'appened   when  I  come   'ome   one  hevening  that  I  found 

'er  gone,  an'  the  'oof  too.     An'  Jennie "  he  drew  his 

hand  slowly  over  his  mouth — '^Jennie  had  died  game,  sir. 
She  'ad  a  bit  of  the  big  black  brute's  corduroys  betwixt 
'er  teeth,  but  'e'd  bashed  'er  'ead  open  with  'is  boot." 

There  was  silence.  Then  he  went  on  with  a  reckless 
laugh,  '''Tweren't  the  gel,  sir;  there's  plenty  o'  them  ter 
be  got,  yaller  hair  an'  all.  But  Jennie  an'  me  had  been 
chums." 

Five  minutes  later  the  monkey  had  changed  masters. 
To  oblige  me  and  save  Jennie  from  being  shot  Dy'sy  Bell 
had  promised  to  take  care  of  her. 

'^I'u'd  rather  'ave  no  money,  sir,"  he  said,  when  he 
appeared  to  fetch  her  away  and  I  offered  him  something 
towards  her  keep,  ''  'twould  only  go  to  the  canteen,  and 
if  I  get  into  trouble,  oo'd  look  after  'er? " 

'"Er,"  I  may  mention,  had  just  bitten  his  finger 
through  to  the  bone,  an  action  which  he  dismissed  with 
the  remark  that  ''females  was  built  that  way." 

Three  days  later,  as  I  rode  past  Number  Three  barrack, 
I  saw  Jennie  cracking  nuts  on  a  brand-new  perch.  Dy'sy, 
it  now  appeared,  was  quite  a  smart  carpenter,  and  had 
made  it  himself  in  the  workshop.  Three  days  after  that 
again,  the  perch  was  embellished  by  a  brass  chain,  and 
Dy'sy  admitted  shamefacedly  that  he  had  once  been  in 
a  foundry.  So  time  passed  on,  until  it  occurred  to  me 
that  Dy'sy  had  ceased  to  come  into  prominence  before  me 
as  company  officer,  and  I  questioned  the  sergeant  con- 
cerning him. 

The  official  did  not  move  a  muscle.     "Number  Three's 

8 


274       THE  REGENERATION   OF   DAISY   BELL 

has  quiet  has  a  orphin  asylum  now,  sir.  As  1  lies  in 
my  bunk  I  don't  'ear  no  whisper.  But  it  was  Bedlam  broke 
loose  the  fust  night  after  Jennie  come,  sir.  I  lay  low, 
seeing  as  there  never  was  no  use  in  tryin'  to  get  at  the 
bottom  o'  that  sort  o'  row  in  the  dark,  sir.  An'  next 
morning  'arf  the  room  complained  of  'avin'  a  hunbap- 
tised  brute  put  to  bed  with  'em.  The  monkey  slep'  with 
Dy'sy,  sir,  so  I  spoke  to  'im,  an'  told  'im  I  c'u'dn't  'ave 
no  more  complaints,  an'  he  replied,  quite  civil-like,  as 
there  sh'u'dn't  be  none.  An'  there  wasn't;  but  'arf  the 
men  'ad  black  eyes  that  week,  sir,  though  'ow  they  came 
by  'm  they  didn't  say." 

I  did  not  enquire.  It  was  sufficient  for  me  that  Number 
Three  barrack  was  rapidly  becoming  regenerate.  As  I 
passed  one  day  I  heard  a  voice  say,  ''Now,  boys  !  I  won't 
'ave  no  cuss  words;  they  ain't  fit  for  a  lydy  to  hear." 

''You  don't  go  so  often  to  the  canteen  as  you  used  to, 
Bell,"  I  said  to  him  one  day  when  I  found  him  sitting  alone 
in  the  verandah  nursing  Jennie,  who  jibbered  at  me. 

"Ain't  got  the  money,  sir,"  he  replied  cheerfully. 
'' Neringis  and  sich-like  is  a  horful  price  in  this  Gord- 
forsaken  spot,  an'  Jennie's  been  a  bit  ailin' ;  won't  eat 
nothing  else." 

"  Well,  you'll  be  getting  your  stripes  soon,  I  expect, 
if  you  go  on  as  you  are  doing,"  I  remarked. 

He  flushed  up.  "I  'opes  so,  sir,"  he  said  modestly. 
'*  Jennie  'u'd  set  store  by  a  striped  sleeve,  females  being 
built  that  way." 

My  prophecy  proved  correct.  Dy'sy  was  made  a 
corporal,  and  before  long,  in  the  Border  campaign  which 
the  cold  weather  brought  us,  found  himself  a  sergeant, 
and  so  eventually  in  charge  of  a  telegraph  station  on  the 
top  of  one  of  the  passes  to  our  rear. 

It  was  an  important  post  to  keep  open,  since  on  the 
integrity  of  the  wire  through  a  mile  or  so  of  singularly 
difficult  country  hung  the  certainty  of  speedy  relief, 
should  any  kind  of  disaster  overtake  our  little  force,  which 
was  intimidating  the  tribes  in  the  valleys  beyond. 

And  disaster  did  overtake  it,  chiefly  by  reason  of  a 
terrific  snowstorm  which  swept  over  it  early  in  February — 


THE   REGENERATION   OF   DAISY   BELL       275 

a  snowstorm  which  paralysed  progress,  and  made  all 
thoughts  turn  to  the  probability  of  that  mile  of  telegraph 
wire  remaining  intact. 

No  supplies  could,  of  course,  be  sent  up,  so  the  men 
in  the  station  must  either  starve  or  return,  if,  indeed, 
they  had  not  been  overwhelmed  already.  The  latter 
seemed  the  most  likely,  since,  though  the  through  wire 
remained  open,  not  a  signal  came  from  the  station. 

''An  avalanche  most  likely,"  said  the  Adjutant.  ''The 
station  was  built,  I  always  said,  in  the  wrong  place.  What 
luck  the  wire  isn't  damaged  as  yet.  It  won't  be  long 
before  it  is,  I'm  afraid." 

It  was,  however,  still  going  strong  when  four  men,  one 
badly  frost-bitten,  made  their  way  into  camp.  They  had 
started  five,  they  said,  by  Sergeant  Bell's  orders,  after 
they  had  with  difficulty  extricated  themselves  from  the 
ruins  of  the  house,  which  had  been  completely  smashed 
up  by  a  tremendous  avalanche.  It  was  impossible,  Dy'sy 
had  said,  to  keep  the  post  and  six  men  also,  so  he  had 
given  them  what  supplies  he  could  spare — the  store  was 
luckily  uninjured — and  bidden  them  take  their  best  chance 
of  safety  at  once. 

As  for  his,  it  seemed  but  slender,  as  I  felt  when,  a 
fortnight  later,  we  managed  to  cut  our  way  through  the 
drifts  that  lay  round  the  hollow  where  the  station  had 
stood.  Across  this  hollow  the  through  wire  still  stretched, 
and  quite  recently  someone  had  evidently  been  at  work 
upon  it,  for  tools  lay  on  fresh  frosted  snow.  But  all  was 
still  as  the  dead,  quiet  as  the  grave.  We  found  Dy'sy 
lying  on  his  face  in  the  store  many  feet  below  the  snow 
surface.  The  steps  cut  down  to  it  were  worn  with  the 
passing  of  his  feet,  but  he  did  not  move  when  we  bent 
over  him ;  something,  however,  cuddled  close  in  his  arms, 
woke  and  jibbered  at  us  angrily.  It  was  Jennie,  dressed 
for  warmth  in  every  rag  of  blanketing  available.  She  was 
as  fat  as  a  pig,  and  the  charcoal  embers  in  the  tin  can 
hung  round  her  neck  were  not  yet  quite  cold.  But  Dy'sy 
was  skin  and  bone ;  yet  the  Irish  doctor,  as  he  bent 
hastily  to  examine  him,  said,  cheerfully:  "Annyhow,  his 

i  2 


276       THE  REGENERATION   OF   DAISY   BELL 

love  for  the  baste  may  have  saved  his  life;  she's  kept 
his  heart  warm  whatever." 

And  she  had. 

Six  weeks  afterwards  I  sat  beside  him  in  hospital.  He 
showed  thin  and  gaunt  still  in  his  grey  flannel  dressing- 
gown,  and  two  fingers  were  missing  on  his  left  hand. 

"Well!"  I  said,  ''so  they've  given  you  the  D.S.M., 
and  a  special  pension  if  you  want  to  go." 

He  smiled  brilliantly. 

''Don't  want  to,  sir.  Jennie  she  likes  the  H'army; 
females  is  built  that  way.  And  as  for  t'other,  'twas  really 
Jennie  done  it.  I  couldn't  take  her  through  the  snow — 
she'd  'a'  died  for  sure.  An'  I  couldn't  leave  her,  so  there 
wasn't  no  choice." 


A  SONG   WITHOUT   WORDS 


It  was  in  the  club  that  the  telegram  came,  and  as  I  sat 
watching  my  partner  make  pie  of  one  of  the  best  bridge 
hands  ever  ruined,  I  read  it  over  once  or  twice,  and, 
finally,  when  our  adversaries  had  run  out,  handed  it  over 
to  the  culprit  as  a  means  of  turning  my  wrath  to  another 
subject. 

''Transferred!"  he  commented,  calmly.  "  H'm !  We 
shall  have  to  get  Beveridge  to  join  our  game  instead!" 
(My  self-pity  flew  for  a  moment  to  poor  Beveridge,  and  I 
wondered  what  sort  of  a  temper  he  had.)  ''Still,  it  isn't 
a  bad  place,  though  rather  out  of  the  way.  Splendid 
buck-shooting — only,  of  course,  this  isn't  the  time.  And 
a  very  decent  house."  Here  he  giggled.  "Well,  decent 
isn't,  perhaps,  the  word  to  use,  is  it?  And,  by  Jove,  I'm 
sorry  for  you.  There  will  be  a  devil  of  a  mess  to  set  right, 
I  expect;  and,  anyhow,  it  isn't  pleasant  to  step  into 
another  fellow's  shoes  after  that  sort  of  thing." 

I  acquiesced.  "That  sort  of  thing"  was,  briefly,  the 
suicide  of  a  fellow  civil  servant,  whom  I  had  known 
vaguely  as  the  most  brilliant  man  in  my  year. 

A  tall,  handsome,  light-hearted  fellow^  full  of  life,  full 
of  everything,  apparently,  likely  to  make  him  go  up ; 
instead  of  which  he  had  gone  down  steadily — so  steadily 
that  at  last  even  a  Government  which  prides  itself  on 
ignoring  breaches  of  social  law,  had  been  driven  into  first 
banishing  him  to  the  charge  of  a  solitary  jungle  district, 
where  there  was  no  world  to  be  scandalised,  and  then  with 
warning  him  that  he  must  either  pull  up  or  send  in  his 
papers. 

He  chose  the  latter  course  decisively,  sending  in  his 
checks  to  another  tribunal. 

"He  wasn't  a  bad  sort  when  he  first  came  out,"  con- 


280  A   SOISTG  WITHOUT   WOBDS 

tinued  my  partner;  ''had,  in  fact,  distinct  glimmerings 
of  sense,  and  to  the  last  he  wasn't,  so  to  speak,  a  bad  officer. 
But  the  wine  and  the  women — ^well,  there  you  are — and — 
make  the  best  of  it." 

This  last  might  have  been  meant  for  the  nice  hand 
which  he  displayed.  We  had  cut  for  partners  again,  with 
the  only  result  of  shifting  the  deal.  I  took  it  that  way,  any- 
how, and  said  no  more. 

There  was,  in  fact,  nothing  to  be  said,  so  when  I  got 
home,  I  told  the  bearer  of  my  transfer,  and,  sitting  down, 
wrote  an  effusively-cheerful  letter  to  my  wife,  who  was 
in  the  hills  with  the  babies,  enlarging  on  the  manifold 
advantages  of  my  transfer,  and  making  much  of  the  fact 
that,  though  it  brought  no  extra  pay,  it  was,  in  a  measure, 
promotion. 

Then  I  smoked  a  pipe,  feeling  virtuous,  for  those 
two  estimable  creatures — my  bearer  and  my  wife — 
invariably  do  my  duty  for  me.  In  fact,  I  am  the  happiest 
man  in  existence.  I  have  told  my  wife  so  a  hundred  times, 
and  she  believes  it  firmly.  The  faculty,  by  the  way,  which 
good  women  have  of  believing  things  that  ought  to  be 
true,  is  occasionally  appalling,  but  is  always  immensely 
convenient  to  their  husbands. 

I  always  wrote  her  cheerful  letters,  and  in  return  I  used 
to  get  delightful  daily  budgets,  giving  me  all  the  wonderful 
ways  and  works  of  the  chicks,  and  imploring  me  to  let  her 
know  regularly  what  the  cook  gave  me  for  dinner,  and  if 
I  ate  it.  Also  if  I  were  morally  sure  that  the  water  was 
boiling  for  my  tea  every  afternoon,  as,  if  I  was  not,  she 
would  infallibly  hand  the  babies  over  to  hirelings,  and 
come  down  to  her  ill-used  hubby. 

Such  delightful,  tender,  womanly  budgets  were  her 
replies  that  I  swear  and  declare  that,  had  I  been  asked 
to  read  them  aloud,  a  lump  in  my  throat  would  have 
interfered  with  my  elocution. 

Yet  I  swear  and  declare,  also,  that  I  would  far  rather 
the  kettle  v/ere  not  boiling  than  that  any  one  I  cared  for 
should  fuss  over  it  and  a  charcoal  brazier  on  a  hot  verandah 
on  a  sweltering  August  day.  But,  then,  as  my  wife  is 
always  telling  me,  I  have  no  real  sense  of  duty. 


A   SONG   WITHOUT   WORDS  281 

I  wrote  her,  therefore,  as  cheerfully  as  I  could,  telling 
her,  which  was  true,  that  solitude  would  be  better  than 
bad  bridge.  Also  that  it  really  was  a  move  nearer  to  her, 
since,  in  case  of  emergency,  I  could  cut  across  country  by 
dhoolie  to  the  foot  of  the  hills.  Finally,  I  enlarged  on 
the  fact  that  my  successor  would  take  over  our  house  as 
it  stood  until  her  return,  so  that  she  need  not  fuss  about 
moving  anything,  as  I  should  do  well  in  my  new  house, 
which  was  to  remain  as  it  was  until  my  predecessor's 
unfortunate  affairs  had  gone  through  the  Administrator- 
General's  office — a  business,  as  a  rule,  of  months. 

I  even  mentioned  the  existence  of  a  Bechstein  grand 
piano,  with  a  hint  that  if  I  could  get  rid  of  our  cottage, 
I  might  buy  it  when  the  sale  came  on — an  additional 
craftiness,  since  my  wife  loves  to  think  I  am  allowed  to 
have  my  own  way  in  everything.  It  makes  her  more 
certain  that  we  have  won  the  Dunmow  flitch  of  bacon — 
which  we  undoubtedly  have. 

Having  done  my  best  to  set  her  wifely  anxiety  at  rest, 
I  advanced  fifty  rupees  to  my  bearer. 

In  consequence  of  which  we  started  next  day  for  my 
new  district,  bag  and  baggage.  Though  the  most  part  of 
the  journey  was  by  train,  the  bearer  insisted  on  buckling 
a  big  sword  he  had  picked  up  somewhere  round  his 
capacious  middle.  It  decidedly  had  an  effect  on  the 
railway  coolies. 

About  three  a.m.  we  turned  out  at  a  roadside  station, 
where,  thanks  to  that  fifty  rupees,  a  dak  gharri  was 
waiting  to  convey  me  the  remaining  twenty  miles.  I  was 
very  sleepy,  and  as  I  tumbled  into  my  new  conveyance  I 
got  a  vague  impression  of  a  howling  wilderness  of  sand, 
tufted  with  tiger  grass,  desolate  utterly;  so  falling  asleep 
again,  and  not  waking  until,  in  the  darkness,  I  tumbled 
out — this  time  into  a  large  empty  room,  with  a  tiny  camp 
bed  set  in  its  midst — I  carried  on,  as  it  were,  the  impression 
of  desert  surroimding  me.  But  not  for  long.  The  next 
day  would,  I  suspected,  be  a  trifle  trying,  since  my  unfor- 
tunate predecessor's  methods  of  business  would  scarcely 
be  conducive  to  a  mechanical  taking  over  charge  of  his 
office.     So  I  was  soon  asleep,  without  even  realising  that 


282  A   SONG   WITHOUT   WORDS 

probably  I  was  sleeping  where  he  had  lain  dead  but  a  day 
or  two  before. 

When  I  opened  my  eyes  next  morning  I  felt  a  curious 
content  and  surprise.  The  room  was  bare  in  the  extreme. 
The  camp  bed  on  which  I  lay,  a  deck  chair,  the  cover  of 
a  travelling  chest-of-drawers  doing  duty  as  a  wardrobe, 
the  top  of  a  travelling  bath  doing  ditto  as  a  table,  a  bit 
of  looking-glass  hung  above  it  by  a  string— these  were  its 
furniture.  The  furniture  of  the  light-hearted  boy  who  had 
come  out  in  the  same  year  as  I  had.  With  an  odd,  guilty 
remorse,  I  remembered  that  I  had  long  since  exchanged 
these  simple  satisfactions  of  youth  for  more  luxurious 
methods.  An  unpaid  bill  of  Maple's,  indeed,  flashed  to  my 
mind,  as,  looking  round  the  walls,  which  were  hung  with 
full-sized  photographs  and  copies  of  the  great  masters,  I 
realised  that  my  predecessor  had  spent  his  spare  cash 
in  a  different  fashion  to  what  I  had. 

Very  different,  indeed.  My  remorse  vanished  in  con- 
tempt, as,  opening  one  of  the  drawers,  a  very  strong  scent 
of  sandal  wood  made  itself  perceptible,  and  in  one  corner 
I  saw  a  trumpery  piece  of  native  jewellery. 

A  certain  anger  took  possession  of  me  then,  as  I  looked 
up  into  the  eyes  of  the  Sistine  Madonna,  which  hung  in  a 
conspicuous  place,  and  I  felt  virtuous  in  realising  that, 
after  all,  it  was  a  natural  refinement  and  pure  love  of 
order  and  beauty  Avhich  lay  at  the  bottom  of  our  civilised 
cult  of  comfortableness. 

So  thinking,  I  passed  out  on  to  the  verandah,  still  with 
last  night's  impression  on  me  that  I  was  in  a  howling 
desert. 

What  I  saw,  therefore,  gave  me  a  shock.  For  here  was 
a  garden  such  as  I  had  never  seen.  Neither  English  nor 
Indian,  yet  reminiscent  of  both  in  its  wide  sweeps  of 
well-kept  lawns,  its  dense  thickets  of  flowering  shrubs, 
both,  at  this  break  in  the  rainy  season,  looking  their  best. 
It  took  me  a  moment,  however,  to  realise  what  it  was 
which  gave  this  garden  its  curious  distinction  from  other 
gardens.  There  was  no  path  in  it.  Though  where  I  stood 
must  once  have  been  the  front  door,  since  a  huge  pillared 
porch  jutted  beyond  the  verandah,  the  grass  swept  right 


A   SONG   WITHOUT    WORDS  283 

up  to  the  very  house.  It  had  a  curious  untrodden  look.  A 
huge-leaved,  waxen-flowered  Beaumontia  almost  covered 
the  porch  with  its  cold,  white  scentless  blossoms,  and 
between  the  pillars  Eucharis  lilies  rose  above  a  marvellous 
mass  of  maidenhair. 

The  delicate  greenery,  the  chill  whiteness  made  me 
think  involuntarily  of  the  newly  dead,  and  had  I  had  on 
my  hat  I  felt  as  if  I  should  have  removed  it. 

As  it  was,  I  stepped,  v/ith  a  slight  shiver,  beyond  the 
porch  into  the  sunlight. 

The  chilliness  was  gone  in  a  moment,  though  the 
cloistered  air  remained,  due  to  the  great  tamarind  trees, 
which  on  all  sides  shut  out  the  world,  shut  in  the  flowers. 
The  birds,  too.  I  never  saw  so  many.  A  golden  oriole 
was  challenging  the  sun  with  its  full-throated  call  from  the 
bronze  rain-shoots  of  the  huge  banyan  tree,  which  filled 
up  one  corner,  and  there  were  at  least  a  dozen  ruby- 
throated  humming-birds  among  the  hibiscus  flowers— 
those  strangely  mutable  flowers,  white  in  the  dawn,  which 
blush  into  a  crimson  death  before  sunset. 

The  banyan  tree,  promising  a  well  in  its  shade,  and  the 
well  promising  the  possibility  of  a  gardener  whom  I  could 
question— for  I  was  beset  by  curiosity— I  strolled  over  to 
it,  and  found  what  I  wanted— a  very  old,  wizened  man, 
pretending  to  weed  an  offensive  patch  of  yellow  African 
marigolds,  which  was  carefully  hidden  away  behind  a 
henna  hedge. 

"Yes!"  he  replied,  with  the  teai'less  regret  one  often 
hears  in  native  voices,  the  dead  Huzoor  had  been  very  fond 
of  his  garden— in  a  way.  (Here  the  regret  became  per- 
sonal and  aggrieved.)  He  had  never  sent  for  European 
seeds,  so,  of  course,  it  had  been  impossible  even  for  the 
most  skilful  of  malas  to  make  it  into  a  real  garden.  But  if 
the  new  Huzoor  would  employ  this  slave— who  had  many 
certificates— here  the  usual  bundle  was  drav/n  out  from 
some  mysterious  hiding-place— mysterious  because  he  was 
more  than  half-naked— he  would  make  proper  paths  and 
''rippin'  beds,"  and  set  them  ablaze  with  "  floccus "  and 

''soot-ullians"  and  "  gerabians  and " 

He  was  beginning  to  reel  off  a  seedsman's  catalogue 


284  A  SONG   WITHOUT    WORDS 

when  I  pulled  him  up  by  pointing  to  the  marigolds.  He 
pursed  up  his  lips  in  pious  horror.  Oh,  no,  there  would 
be  no  more  '' gooljafari"  or  ''genda"  grown  in  that 
garden.     They  had  been  for  the  other  folk,  who,  of  course, 

would  no  longer The  mixture  of  cunning  question  and 

scandalised  propriety  on  the  old  humbug's  face  made  me 
mentally  resolve  that  he  should  ''no  longer"  either.  In 
fact,  before  my  wife  and  the  bairns  came  down  I  must  have 
the  whole  place  cleared  and  fumigated.  But  the  garden'? 
No,  it  must  not  be  touched. 

I  had  my  breakfast  in  a  huge  dark,  central  room,  which 
was  absolutely  bare  save  for  a  ricketty  table  and  two 
chairs.  There  were  not  even  any  photographs  on  the  walls. 
It  was  so  dark  that  they  could  not  have  been  seen. 

"They  found  the  Huzoor  lying  there,  at  the  door,"  said 
my  bearer  calmly,  after  apologising  profusely  for  an  over- 
sight in  the  matter  of  marmalade,  which,  he  trusted,  might 
be  forgotten,  and  not  reported  to  the  memsahib.  ''He 
had  been  dead  a  long  time,  for  he  had  paid  off  all  the 
servants  and  sent  away  the  other  people  and  the  children 
on  the  evening  before,  saying  he  was  going  on  a  journey. 
His  bearer  waited  for  him  at  the  station  with  his  baggate, 
only  he  never  came,  nor  his  horse,  either. 

"It  was  the  office  which  found  him,  when  it  came  for 
signature  of  papers  next  day,  and  there  was  nothing 
disturbed,  only  the  Huzoor  lying  where  they  could  see  him 
easily  from  the  front  door,  and  the  horse  comfortable  in 
its  stall,  with  plenty  of  grass.  He  was  always  thoughtful 
to  the  poor  was  the  sahib,  and  never  gave  trouble  to 
others.  At  least,  so  his  servants  say — but  what  can  they 
know — poor,  mean  creatures,  who  do  not  even  know  when 
a  kettle  boils  !  " 

I  let  him  talk,  for  somehow  I  did  not  wish  to  think.  In 
much  the  same  mood  I  went  doggedly  through  my  day's 
work  in  taking  over  charge  and  reducing  chaos  to  order — 
or,  rather,  conventional  order,  for  through  all  the  dis- 
graceful neglect  of  ordinary  routine  ran  the  unmistakable 
thread  of  one  man's  control,  and  of  a  strong  man  at  that, 
even  in  its  favouritism,  its  flagrant  derelictions  from  the 
ordinary  conception  of  a  magistrate's  duty. 


A   SONG   WITHOUT   WORDS  285 

As  I  got  into  my  dogcart  to  come  home,  an  orderly  came 
forward,  with  a  doubtful  air,  carrying  a  small  bag,  such 
as  natives  use  as  a  purse. 

''It  was  the  custom,"  he  began;  but  by  this  time  I  felt 
that  I  must  return  to  a  right  judgment  of  things,  so  I 
purposely  lost  my  temper,  and  let  it  be  known  that  all  old 
customs  were  to  be  abolished.  ''It  was  only  the  pennies 
for  the  children  on  Fridays,"  stuttered  the  orderly.  "The 
Huzoor  used  always  to  give  them " 

I  drove  off,  thinking  that,  perhaps,  my  predecessor 
might  have  been  wise  in  choosing  a  higher  tribunal. 

My  bearer,  however,  who,  as  usual,  stood  in  the 
verandah  to  receive  my  hat,  had  no  doubts  in  the  totality 
of  his  blame.  He  was  full  of  virtuous  activities.  Order, 
in  some  measure,  had  been  restored.  Certain  screens  of 
grass,  which  had  been  removed  against  a  time  when  the 
mem  might  find  them  useful  in  the  poultry  yard,  and  the 
outhouses  having  been  finally  cleared— by  the  aid  of  the 
police — of  various  pensioners  and  idle  folk,  who  wept  pro- 
fusely, had  been  duly  distributed  among  the  servants,  he 
himself  having  taken  one  with  a  women's  enclosure,  which 
would  be  the  cause  of  great  comfort. 

I  bid  him  take  what  he  liked,  and  for  the  first  time  w^ent 
into  the  drawing-room,  where  he  said  my  tea  awaited  me. 

I  shall  never  forget  my  first  look  at  that  room,  with  its 
five  straight,  undraped  windows,  set  in  a  row  round  one 
slightly  curved  wall.  The  others  bare,  save  for  the 
shadows,  v/hich  were  fast  creeping  to  obliterate  even  the 
bareness.  The  windows  were  mere  oblongs  of  dim  light, 
stretching  up  into  the  lofty  roof,  and  that  shadow  looming 
in  one  shadowy  corner,  across  a  vast  expanse  of  shadowy 
matting,  must  be  the  Bechstein  piano.  I  made  a  move 
towards  it,  and  stumbled  against  my  own  tea-table,  a 
highly  ornate,  sham  Oriental,  carved  thing,  which  the 
bearer,  by  my  wife's  orders,  carried  about  with  him 
religiously,  and  at  the  same  time  the  bearer  himself  entered 
with  the  reading  lamp,  without  which,  so  I  am  told,  I 
cannot  exist. 

I  gave  up  the  Bechstein,  therefore,  for  a  time,  and  had 
caviare  sandwiches  with  my  tea  instead. 


286  A   SONG   WITHOUT   WORDS 

I  do  not  know  why — my  wife  would  have  said  because 
the  water  was  not  boiling — but  I  did  not  enjoy  my  tea. 
The  pity  of  all  things  in  this  incomprehensible  world  struck 
me  with  a  vague  anger.  I  sat  wondering  if,  after  all,  a 
higher  tribunal 

Good  heavens  !  What  was  that  1  Someone  was  playing 
on  the  Bechstein.  I  did  not  turn.  I  sat  staring  at  those 
five  solemn  oblongs  of  the  glimmering  windows,  showing 
lighter  and  lighter  as  the  shadows  deepened  in  the  big 
bare  room. 

It  was  Walther's  song  out  of  '^  Tannhauser  " — the  song 
of  divine  love.  .  .  . 

The  bearer  said  I  was  asleep  when  he  came  to  tell  me 
it  was  time  to  dress  for  dinner.  Perhaps  I  was,  for  sound 
sleep  brings  perfect  peace  and  rest,  and  that  had  come  to 
me  with  the  music  which  had  come  out  of  the  windows. 

I  have  a  dim  recollection  that  the  khansaman  apologised 
because  the  soup  was  not  clear,  and  that  the  bearer 
explained  that  a  wire  mattress  had  not  arrived  owing  to 
the  breaking  down  of  a  bullock  cart.  But  I  know  that  I 
sat  up  till  all  hours  of  the  night  in  the  dark,  hoping  to  hear 
the  Bechstein  again,  but  it  was  silent  as  the  grave. 

Perhaps  at  dusk  I  might  hear  it  once  more.  I  raced 
off  to  the  office  early,  in  order  to  be  home  in  time,  and 
was  almost  glad  of  a  few  flagrant  derelictions  of  duty 
cropping  up  to  keep  my  moral  nature  from  too  much 
sympathy. 

Yet  even  so,  as  I  drove  home,  I  put  my  hand  in  my 
pocket  and  drew  out  a  handful  of  coppers  for  a  group  of 
children  I  passed  on  the  road.  I  could  not  help  it  when 
I  remembered  a  certain  paper  I  had  sent  up  to  the 
Administrator-General  that  day,  showing  the  way  in  which 
a  certain  sinner  had  spent  his  last  pay. 

''Tea  is  ready  in  the  drawing-room,"  said  the  bearer; 
and  even  in  my  preoccupation  I  thought  there  was  some- 
thing odd  in  his  voice. 

But  a  look  into  the  big  bare  room  was  sufiicient.  I 
shouldn't  have  known  it,  women  have  such  a  way  of 
altering  the  whole  character  of  a  house  by  a  yellow  silk 
bow.     She  had  taken  the  little  camp  bed  and  made  a  couch 


A   SONG   WITHOUT   WORDS  287 

out  of  it  with  cushions  and  phulkarees.  The  five  fateful 
windows,  like  the  five  senses  looking  out  on  the  garden  of 
the  soul,  were  tucked  and  festooned,  and  through  one  of 
them  came  the  familiar  sound  of  a  pair  of  bellows,  and  then 
a  still  more  familiar  exclamation : 

"  There  !    That's  really  boiling  at  last.'' 

The  next  instant  my  wife  was  in  my  arms,  tearful, 
tender,  triumphant. 

Cheerful  letters  were  all  very  well,  but  she  knew ;  so 
she  had  just  left  the  babies  in  charge  of  some  super- 
excellent  creature,  and  run  away  down  to  see  I  was  really 
comfortable. 

"And,  after  all,"  she  said,  nodding  her  head  as  she 
poured  out  the  tea,  ''it  is  as  w^ell  I  did  come,  for  really 
there  seems  to  be  nothing  in  the  house  except  the 
Bechstein." 

I  looked  over  to  it  dully,  and  noticed  that  it  was  now 
ornamented  by  my  photograph  in  a  filigree  frame. 

"Yes,"  I  said— I  hope  I  kept  some  of  the  regret  out  of 
my  voice — "only  the  Bechstein." 

And  as  we  sat  and  talked  of  the  children,  and  our  own 
happiness,  and  the  seeds  we  were  going  to  sow  in  the 
garden,  the  five  windows  grew  lighter  as  the  shadows 
deepened. 

But  the  spirit  of  the  room  was  silent. 


SEGREGATION 


"I've  got  the  plague,  sir,  upon  my  sam,  I  'ave.  I'll 
show  yer  the  spot,  sir,  same  as  they  'ad  in  1666  w'en  the 
Tower  o'  London  was  burnt  down,  an'  Sir  Christopher 
Wren  built  St.  Paul's— so  'elp  me  Gawd." 

The  speaker  was  a  plausible  loafer  of  the  usual  type. 
He  was  dressed  in  white,  or  what  had  once  been  white 
raiment.  A  gilt  button  or  two  hung  round  the  coat ;  mute 
testimony  to  its  having  once  belonged  to  a  man  who  did 
some  work  of  some  kind  for  the  Government.  He  was  not 
a  Eurasian,  that  you  could  see  by  the  line  of  white  on  his 
forehead  above  the  tan,  as  he  stood  apologetically  in  the 
court  room  holding  his  helmet  before  him  with  both  hands 
as  if  he  meant  to  offer  it  up  as  a  bribe.  It  was  certainly 
the  most  valuable  thing  about  him,  for  it  had  a  wadded 
quilted  cover  and  looked,  what  the  rest  of  him  did  not — 
respectable. 

"  The  plague  ! "  echoed  the  magistrate  (I  am  the  magis- 
trate). "Nonsense,  man!  you're  drunk — that's  what's  the 
matter  with  you.  Inspector,  remove  that  man :  put  him 
into  the  lock-up  ii  he  gives  trouble." 

The  inspector  approached,  but  the  loafer  stood  his 
ground,  not  without  quiet  dignity ;  the  dignity  that  comes 
to  some  people  in  the  first  stage  of  intoxication.  "  Excuse 
of  me,  sir,"  he  said,  ''but  I  ain't  going  to  make  myself  a 
ncosance  to  nobody.  That's  w'y  I  came  'ere.  That's  w'y 
I  spent  my  last  bloomin'  hart  hanner  (eight  annas)  in  takin' 
a  ticca  gJiari  (hired  carriage)  to  the  'orspitals,  every  one  of 
'em,  so  as  there  might  be  no  infections.  Bless  your  'art, 
I  don't  want  to  do  no  'arm  to  anyone.  I  wants  to  be 
seggergated,  that's  all,  afore  I  does  any." 

The  magistrate  smiled  faintly:  there  was  something 
likeable  in  the  man's  face. 

''So  you've  been   to   the  hospitals,   have  you?    What 

did  the  doctors  sayl" 

T  2 


292  SEGREGATION 

"Same  as  you,  sir,"  he  replied  cheerfully,  *'as  I  was 
drunk;  but  if  I  am,  Job  Charnock — that's  me,  sir — never 
got  real  on  afore  with  one  glass  o'  harrack — an'  beastly  bad 
stuff  it  was,  too — smelt  like  a  dead  dorg  an'  tasted  like  a 
tannery." 

Perhaps  the  name.  Job  Charnock,  awoke  memories  of 
the  founder  of  Calcutta,  who,  before  his  fortunes  were 
made,  must  have  been  more  or  less  of  a  friendless 
wanderer  in  an  eastern  land;  perhaps  it  was  because  the 
magistrate  was  waiting  for  a  file  to  be  brought  from  the 
record  office;  but  the  spirit  of  cross-examination  entered 
into  him.     ''One  glass  of  arrak — is  that  all  you've  had?" 

The  loafer  paused,  an  expression  of  the  utmost  candour 
came  to  his  face.  "All  I've  'ad  to-day,  sir,  s'elp  me,  'cos 
I  'adn't  a  pice  more  left  ter  buy  a  bit  o'  food  with.  Only 
the  hart  hanner  I  spent  Christian-like  on  a  ticca  gliari  ter 
try  an'  get  seggergated  afore  it  was  too  late.  An'  they 
said  I  was  drunk  !  " 

The  mournful  cadence  of  his  voice  was  irresistible. 

"  Chaprassi,  take  that  man  to  the  serai,  and  tell  the 
darogah  to  give  him  some  breakfast.  I'll  pay  for  it.  Now 
you  go  quietly,  my  man,  and  sleep  it  off.  You'll  have  got 
rid  of  the  plague  by  morning." 

The  file  had  come  in  from  the  record  office,  I  was 
immersed  in  the  endless,  hopeless  attempt  to  drag  truth 
from  the  bottom  of  the  well  in  a  land  suit;  so  I  thought 
no  more  of  Job  Charnock  until  I  met  the  civil  surgeon  at 
tennis  in  the  evening. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  to  my  query,  "Segregation  was  on 
his  rounds  again  this  morning.  You're  new,  but  he  is  a 
regular  institution  here.  He  gets  the  funks  on  board, 
generally  about  a  month  after  a  bout,  and  comes  to  every 
one  of  us  in  turn  to  be  segregated.  I  think  he  is  a  bit 
looney  on  the  plague — has  a  real  pJiohy  about  it.  He'll 
get  it,  I  expect,  some  day,  from  sheer  fright — but  there's 
none  about  at  present." 

The  something  likeable  in  the  man's  face,  however, 
returned  to  memory  with  the  obvious  fact  that  he  had 
appeared  chiefly  concerned  to  "do  no  'arm  to  anyone." 
So  the  next  morning,  having  ten  minutes  to  spare  on  my 


SEGREGATION  293 

way  from  the  city,  I  called  in  at  the  serai.  It  was  like  all 
other  serais:  a  dreary  cloistered  square,  deserted  abso- 
lutely between  five  a.m.  until  eight  p.m. ;  that  is  to  say,  the 
hours  during  which  travellers  are  on  the  road.  Now,  close 
on  nine  o'clock,  only  the  muck  of  last  night's  bivouac 
remained.  A  sweeper,  with  a  broom  and  a  basket,  was 
busy  removing  some  of  the  more  salient  rubbishes.  Other- 
wise all  was  still  as  the  grave.  But,  seated  on  a  rush  stool 
in  one  of  the  little  octagonal  turret  rooms,  which,  built  on 
either  side  of  the  gateway,  are  reserved  for  European 
wayfarers,  I  found  Job  Charnock.  He  had  evidently  paid 
a  visit  to  the  well,  for  he  looked  cleaner  and  was  distinctly 
sober,  but  he  was  more  voluble  than  ever. 

"I  give  'art  the  breakfast  you  stood  me  away  to  the 
sweeper,  sir,"  he  said,  ''an'  'e  brought  me  some  omv.m 
water  as  cured  me  in  a  jiffy.  That's  all  I  was  wantin', 
sir,  an'  none  o'  them  doctors  could  spare  me  'arf  a  pint. 
It  seems  strange,  don't  it,  sir?  And  ter  think  the  'arm 
as  I  might  do  going  about  with  the  plague  spot  under  my 
harm,  as  it's  all  writ  truthful  in  that  book  by  Mr.  'Arrison 
Hainsworth,  Esquire.  'Ave  you  read  it,  sirl"  he  asked 
blandly. 

I  assured  him  I  had,  told  him  he  was  a  fool,  advised 
him  to  go  north  to  the  new  railway  to  find  work,  gave  him 
five  rupees  to  find  his  way  there.  It  was  indiscreet  and 
quite  contrary  to  the  rules  of  the  Charity  Organisation 
Society,  but  as  I  have  said,  something  in  the  man's  face 
appealed  to  me. 

Thereafter  he  passed  from  my  memory  under  the  usual 
pressure  of  work  and  worry  which  is  the  lot  of  an  Indian 
official. 

It  was  in  the  middle  of  the  hot  weather,  when  the  civil 
surgeon  rushed  into  me  at  my  office  with  a  telegram  in 
his  hand. 

"Will  you  arrange  with  Spiller  for  my  work,"  he  said 
excitedly,  "I  must  be  off  at  once.  Read  that— you  see,  I 
gave  the  assistant  surgeon  at  the  Bimariwallah  dispensary 
a  few  days'  leave  off  my  own  bat,  and  there's  only  a  dresser 
in  charge ;  so  there  will  be  the  devil  of  a  row  if  anything 
goes  wrong." 


294  SEGREGATION 

The  telegram  read  as  follows:  ''Outbreaks  of  much 
plague  amongst  European  gentlemen  here.  Please  arrange 
for  supplies  of  sufficient  brandy." 

''But  there  are  no  Europeans  at  Bimari wallah,"  I 
began. 

"I  know  that,"  broke  in  the  doctor,  "and,  of  course, 
brandy  isn't  the  right  treatment;  but  that's  just  where  it 
is  The  fool  of  a  dresser  doesn't  know  English,  doesn't 
know  anything,  so  I'm  bound  to  go." 

"  Well,  if  you'll  curb  your  impatience  for  two  hours, 
till  I've  finished  this  case,  I'll  motor  you  so  far  down  the 
Trunk  road,  and  dak  you  on.  I  have  an  Executive 
Municipal  Council  to-morrow  morning  at  Raipur,  and  it's 
all  on  the  way." 

There  had  been  a  shower  of  rain — an  advance  scout  of 
the  coming  monsoon  to  spy  out  the  dryness  of  the  land — 
so  our  spin  of  thirty  miles  down  the  road  was  pleasant 
enough,  though  the  great  wains  of  corn  and  straw  that 
still  defy  the  network  of  railways  which  has  immeshed 
India,  had  possession  of  a  large  portion  of  the  highway. 
But,  to  my  mind,  there  is  alv/ays  something  "  satisfactory  " 
in  finding  that  no  amount  of  preliminary  hooting  changes 
the  path  of  the  slow-moving  wheels,  and  that,  in  the  end, 
even  a  Siddeley-Wolsey  car  must  either  hold  up  until  com- 
prehension comes  to  the  carter  who  moves  as  slowly  as  the 
wheels,  or  else  pass  by  on  a  side-walking.  It  seems  to 
presage  safety ;  to  give  assurance  that  India  will  not,  after 
all,  run  off  the  rails. 

The  buggy  and  horse  were  waiting  at  the  cross  roads, 
and  it  only  needed  a  detour  of  three  miles  to  drop  the 
doctor  at  the  very  door  of  the  dispensary. 

Feeling  some  curiosity  as  to  what  was  really  the  matter, 
I  withstood  his  prayer  to  be  set  down  and  allowed  to  make 
his  way  on  foot.  I  was  glad  I  did;  for  the  first  glimpse  I 
had  of  the  dispensary  compound  assured  me  that  some- 
thing very  unusual  was  taking  place.  To  begin  with,  a 
long  low  reed  shed,  such  as  is  used  in  cholera  epidemics, 
had  been  hastily  run  up  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  road, 
and  in  it  were  to  be  seen  patients  lying  in  their  beds  or 
out  of  them.     Posts,  each  carrying  a  yellow  streamer,  were 


SEGREGATION  295 

set  up  every  ten  yards  around  the  compound  itself,  and  at 
each  gate  stood  a  village  watchman  complete  with  speared 
staff  and  bells. 

As  we  drove  up,  the  dresser— pallid  of  face,  but  full  of 
a  vast  importance— rushed  out  from  a  small  hut  which  had 
been  erected  inside. 

''Many,  many  thanks  to  Supreme  Almighty,"  he 
ejaculated;  then  added,  with  distinct  complacency,  "you 
will  find  all  things  necessarily  in  order,  sir.  Segrega- 
tionalism  is  being  much  carried  out.  Patient  havmg 
passed  through  p-neumonic  deliriums  is  now  comatic  and 
in  articulo  mortis.^^ 

I  followed  the  doctor,  who  looked,  as  well  he  might, 
completely  bewildered. 

The  dispensary  was  cleared  out :  saucers  of  disinfectants 
positively  littered  the  ground.  White  sheets  saturated 
with  the  same  hung  at  every  door ;  the  smell  of  them  stank 
in  the  nostrils,  and,  as  I  followed,  a  dank  disagreeable  wet 
flap  from  one  of  them  on  my  cheek  made  me  shiver;  but 
the  sight  which  met  my  eyes  in  the  central  room  set  me 
literally  shaking  with  laughter.    It  was  so  inexpressibly 

comic. 

Propped  high  on  pillows,  his  face  placid,  composed,  lay 
Job  Charnock,  snoring  contentedly,  while  an  empty  brandy 
bottle  beside  him  on  the  bed  showed  one  cause  at  least  of 
his  somnolence.  There  he  lay,  peaceful  as  a  baby,  while 
the  doctor,  frowning  at  my  inopportune  laughter,  turned 
angrily  to  the  dresser. 

'*  You  cursed  fool !  The  man's  drunk.  ^Tiat  the  deuce 
do  you  mean  by  being  such  an  ass."  Then  the  comic  side 
of  the  situation  took  him  also,  and  he  joined  me  in  my 
merriment. 

"By  Jove,"  he  chortled,  ''Segregation  has  done  it  this 

time." 

There  was  no  use  attempting  to  awaken  him  for  the 
moment,  so  the  doctor  turned  on  the  dresser  again.  How 
had  it  come  about  ^    How  had  he  allowed  himself  to  be  so 

imposed  upon?  ^    u   » 

It  was  quite  simple,  even  when  clothed  in  the  babu  s 
best  "  middel-f ail "  English. 


296  SEGREGATION 

Segregation  had  come,  had  seen,  had  conquered.  He  had 
declared  himself  sick  of  the  plague,  and  defied  the  dresser 
to  deny  it.  He  had  thereupon  taken  possession  of  the 
dispensary,  ordered  the  erection  of  the  temporary  sheds 
by  enforced  labour,  cleared  out  the  patients,  used  up  all 
the  disinfectants,  and  had  then,  but  not  till  then,  taken 
to  his  bed  and  drunk  all  the  brandy!  So  "cometic 
symptoms  supervening,  and  supplies  of  brandy  exhaust- 
ing," the  dresser  had  appealed  ''through  authentic 
sources  for  aid  of  the  Almighty." 

''Anyway,  by  Jove!"  said  the  doctor,  as  he  not-ed  all 
the  arrangements,  "I  couldn't  have  done  it  better  myself. 
He  has  even" — he  pointed  to  a  row  of  men,  evidently  of 
the  semi-savage  Sansiya  race,  who  were  squatting  in  front 
of  the  village  accountant's  house — "set  them  to  killing 
rats  ! " 

And,  in  truth,  each  of  these  hardy  hunters,  bore  a 
bamboo  on  which  were  strung  the  dead  bodies  of  many 
rodents,  young  and  old.  Undoubtedly  Job  Charnock  had 
a  genius  for  organisation ;  and,  with  a  mournful  prescience 
of  what  would  be  the  answer,  I  asked  the  nearest  Sansi 
what  he  was  to  get  for  his  rats. 

It  was  half  the  Government  rate :  but  the  broad  grin  on 
the  man's  face  showed  him  satisfied.  Yes !  Job  Charnock 
had  the  gift  of  the  Empire-builder ! 

"Look  here!"  I  said  to  the  doctor,  "that  man  hasn't 
committed  an  indictable  offence.  He  diagnosed  his  com- 
plaint as  plague — that  is  not  indictable;  he  went  to  your 
Department  for  advice  and  got  confirmation  of  his 
suspicions;  that  was  not  his  fault;  and  all  he's  done  since 
then,  is  what  ought  to  have  been  done  under  the  circum- 
stances." 

"  Except  the  brandy,"  expostulated  the  doctor. 
"  Brandy  is  not  in  the  dietary  for  plague,  and  he's  drunk 
up  the  year's  supply  !    That  amounts  to  stealing." 

"  Pardon  me !  You  can  have  the  dresser  up  for  misuse 
of  supplies,  if  you  like,"  I  said  stoutly,  "but  every  drop  of 
that  brandy  was  drunk  out  of  one  of  your  blessed  measuring 
glasses."  I  pointed  to  the  inverted  crystal  cone  with 
cabalistic  signs  on  it  which  lay  beside  the  bottle.     "He 


SEGREGATION  297 

couldn't  have  taken  more  than  an  ounce  at  a  time,  and  that 
to  a  man  of  his  habits  is  strictly  a  medicinal  dose,  and  for 
that  your  dresser  is  responsible.  No  !  send  him  in  to  me 
when  he  sobers.     I'll  settle  him  up." 

I  did  so  to  the  best  of  my  ability,  but  there  was  no 
question  that  Job  Charnock  was,  as  the  doctor  had  said, 
''a  bit  looney  "  at  times,  especially  when  he  had  any  drink 
on  board,  though  no  one  could  have  called  him  a  habitual 
drunkard.  Still,  there  was  little  use  in  getting  him 
employment.  He  always  drifted  out  of  it  again.  Then, 
for  a  while,  he  would  disappear,  only  to  return  after  a 
few  months  with  his  usual,  "I  don't  want  to  do  no  'arm 
to  anyone.  I  wants  to  be  seggergated,  for  I've  got  the 
plague,  so  'elp  me  Gawd  I  'ave."  He  was  always,  then, 
at  the  last  point  of  destitution;  more  than  once  even  the 
''hart  hanner"  for  the  ticca  ghari  was  not  his,  and  he  would 
come  skulking  into  the  office  almost  starving  and  barefoot. 
For  he  looked  on  me  as  a  friend  in  need;  and,  indeed,  I 
used  sometimes  to  wonder  if  hunger  were  not  as  much 
responsible  for  the  recurrence  of  his  delusion  as  drink. 

Then  I  was  transferred  to  Rajputana,  and  apparently 
left  Job  Charnock  behind  me,  until  one  hot  weather 
morning  when,  in  order  to  catch  a  train,  I  was  galloping 
across  a  short  cut  of  the  wild  Bar  land  which  lay  between 
the  railway  and  the  out-of-the-way-place  where  I  was 
stationed.  It  is  a  strange  desert,  this  Bar  land,  of  wild 
caper  bushes,  stunted  jund  trees,  and  hard  resilient  lime- 
stone soil,  baked  by  the  sun  to  whiteness.  A  horse's  hoofs 
resounds  over  it  for  miles,  but  a  man,  if  he  left  visible 
path,  might,  without  the  aid  of  the  sun,  lose  his  way  in 
it  almost  any  moment.  Even  I  had  to  glance  at  the  where- 
abouts of  that  luminary  when  a  few  moment's  abstraction 
caused  me  to  divert  my  eye  from  the  faint  traces  of 
previous  passages  which  was  all  there  was  of  path. 

As  I  did  so,  my  eye  was  caught  by  something  curious 
in  the  gnarled  branches  of  a  jund  tree  some  fifty  yards 
further  away.  It  looked  like  a  red  cross.  Instinctively  1 
rode  towards  it.  It  icas  a  red  cross.  Two  strips  of  red 
Turkey  cotton  had  been  carefully  tied  crosswise  between 
the   branches.     Wha.t   did   it  mean?    And   why  had   that 


298  SEGEEGATION 

shallow  trench — a  mere  scraping  on  the  hard  soil — been 
traced  between  that  tree  and  the  next? 

And — ^yes ! — that  was  another  red  cross  in  its  branches 
also  !  I  rode  on  only  to  find  that  here  again  the  trench 
trended  at  right  angles  towards  a  further  tree  where  yet 
another  red  cross  showed. 

The  grey,  green,  leafless  triangle  of  caper  bushes,  all 
set  with  tiny  coral  bud-flowers,  had  so  far  prevented  my 
seeing  anything  within  the  traced  square ;  but  now  I  came 
upon  a  definite  opening.  Across  it,  however,  from  bush  to 
bush,  stretched  a  pair  of  men's  braces,  and  pinned  to  this 
was  a  bit  of  paper  on  which  something  was  written  in  what 
looked  suspiciously  like  blood. 

I  jumped  off  my  horse  and  bent  to  look  at  it.  Though 
written  in  large  characters  it  was  barely  decipherable,  and 
seemed  to  have  been  drawn  with  difficulty  by  a  pointed 
stick.     This  much  I  could  read : 

"  Trespussers  will  he  persecuted 
No  Thoroughfare 
Case  of  Plague  within  s'elp  me  Gawd.'' 

Segregation !  by  all  that  was  holy ! 

I  tied  my  horse  to  the  inarched  root  of  a  jund  tree,  set 
aside  the  braces,  and  made  my  way  through  the  bushes. 

It  was  quite  a  comfortable  secluded  spot.  The  grey-green 
set-with-scarlet  brocade  of  the  caper  bushes  formed  a  cur- 
tain round  it^  the  floor  of  it  was  hard  and  white  as  marble ; 
but  in  the  middle  of  the  little  open  space  there  was,  as  one 
sees  so  often  in  this  Bar  land,  a  tiny  hillock  of  sand  that 
had  been  whirled  thither  and  left  by  the  wild  dust  storms 
which  sweep  over  the  Rajputana  desert.  And  on  this  sand 
Job  Charnock  lay,  his  face  turned  up  to  the  sky.  He 
cannot  have  been  dead  long,  for  his  body  was  untouched 
by  wild  birds  or  beasts,  but  he  was  quite  dead.  Perhaps 
though,  the  sleeves  of  his  turkey-red  shirt — the  rest  of  it 
having  evidently  gone  to  the  making  of  crosses — which 
were  hung  on  sticks  set  in  the  sand  at  his  head  and  his 
feet  might,  so  far,  have  frightened  away  the  animals. 
They  might  have  been  put  there  for  the  purpose;  on  the 


SEGREGATION  299 

other  hand  they  might  have  been  meant  as  a  last  danger 
signal,  not  to  prevent  harm  being  done  to  him,  but  to 
prevent  him  from  '"arming  anybody."  His  bare  body 
showed  terribly  emaciated ;  but  his  face  was  calm ;  it 
almost  had  a  smile  upon  it. 

Had  he  really  died  of  the  plague ;  or,  in  coming,  it  might 
be,  to  see  me,  had  he  lost  his  way,  as  a  stranger  might 
well  do,  in  the  pathless  Bar,  and  fallen  a  victim  to  star- 
vation? And  had  the  recurrence  of  hunger  brought  on 
his  curious  hallucination  once  more? 

Who  could  say?  Plague  was  very  prevalent.  It  might 
be  one ;  it  might  be  the  other. 

I  stood  looking  at  the  peaceful  face  for  a  minute  or  two ; 
then  I  made  up  my  mind.  He  should  have  his  wish ;  no  one 
this  time  should  interfere  with  his  desire  to  ''do  no  'arm  to 
nobody." 

So,  covering  the  body  for  the  time  with  the  doubled 
blanket  I  always  use  as  a  saddle  cloth,  I  rode  off  to  the 
nearest  village,  some  six  miles  off,  and  returned  with  two 
men,  pickaxes  and  shovels. 

It  took  some  time  to  dig  a  grave  in  that  hard  white 
soil ;  but  when  the  coolies  had  done  patting  down  the  dry 
dust  and  limestone  nodules  into  the  long  mound  of  earth 
which  is  the  outward  sign  that  a  human  body  lies  beneath, 
I  lingered  to  peg  one  of  the  red  crosses  over  it. 

So  he  found  Segregation  at  last.  There  was  no  m-ore 
fear  of  his  doing  any  harm  to  anyone. 


SLAVE   OF   THE   COURT 


I  sate  in  the  sunshine  of  Delhi  as  it  blazed  down  upon 
the  trellised  tombs  of  a  dead  dynasty.  I  was  very  tired; 
as  police  officers  are  apt  to  be  when  Crowned  Heads  travel 
in  India.  But  my  particular  Monarch  was  away  from  my 
jurisdiction  laying  foundation  stones  elsewhere,  so  I  had 
an  off  four-and-twenty  hours.  Not  knowing  Delhi  as  it 
should  be  known,  I  utilised  my  holiday  for  slow,  solitary, 
silent  sight-seeing,  in  the  course  of  which  I  had  driven  out 
to  the  Kutb-minar,  had  bidden  the  carriage  return  to  await 
me  by  Humayon's  Tomb,  so,  with  lunch  in  my  pocket,  had 
set  out  systematically  to  reconstruct  old  India  out  of  the 
crowding  ruins. 

It  is  a  fascinating  occupation;  but  one  provocative  of 
dreams,  and,  as  I  rested,  idly  smoking,  in  the  shade  of  a 
gnarled  jhund  tree,  I  was  more  than  half  asleep.  Around 
me  lay  the  graves  of  Kings  who  had  once  ruled  in  the  flesh. 
I  had  been  trying,  as  it  were,  to  live  their  lives,  to  see  with 
their  eyes,  and  the  conclusion  had  been  forced  in  upon  me 
that  though  the  monarchy  had  changed  (and  my  particular 
Crowned  Head  was  certainly  not  to  pattern  of  the  Old 
Indian  autocrat)  the  country  and  the  people  had  altered 
but  little. 

For  instance,  the  pageant  through  the  city  streets  of  a 
few  days  past,  with  the  bra.zen  sunlight  setting  silks  and 
satins  aflame  with  vivid  colours,  and  painting  every  shadow 
dark  with  the  purple  gloom  of  night,  was,  as  it  were, 
of  all  time;  the  faces  of  the  crowd  through  which  it  cleft 
its  way,  were  in  type,  in  character,  permanent. 

I  closed  my  eyes  to  visualize  how  the  dapper  Viceroy 
would  have  looked  had  he  been  scattering  golden 
pistachios,  silver  almonds  and  enamelled  rose  leaves 
amongst  the  lieges,  instead  of  sitting  his  horse  purpose- 
fully, like  an  ill-fitting  statue  and  inwardly  rehearsing  the 
detail  of  up-to-date  benefits  he  had  to  proclaim  at  the  end 


304  SLAVE  OF  THE  COURT 

of  his  ride'^  Were  they,  I  wondered,  more  satisfactory 
than  the  older  largesse? 

When  I  opened  my  eyes,  I  saw  a  naked  old  man  squatted 
forlornly  among  the  latticed  graves.  He  held  a  flat  basket 
— a  gardener's  basket — between  his  knees;  it  contained 
only  one  compact  posy  of  closely  crushed  flowers — the  gul 
this  and  gul  that — beloved  of  natives;  but  I  saw  that  a 
similar  bunch  had  been  laid  on  several  of  the  tombs. 

The  man,  however,  was  palpably  not  a  gardener.  No 
one  of  Indian  experience  who  on  real  hot-weather  evenings 
had  wandered  round  his  back  premises  could  have 
hesitated  as  to  vocation.  Either  as  chef  or  scullion,  the 
figure  belonged  to  the  cook-room;  there  was  that  in  its 
very  nakedness  (save  for  a  tight-wound  waist  cloth),  that 
in  the  very  polish  of  the  close-shaved  head,  which  was 
quaintly  reminiscent  of  full-starched  raiment  and  high- 
piled  turban. 

Now,  I  always  speak  to  a  native  when  I  get  him  alone — 
it  is  a  useful  habit  for  a  police  officer — so  I  said  casually : 

"  On  what  tomb,  friend,  are  you  going  to  put  that 
bunch?" 

The  old  figure  turned,  profuse — of  course! — in  salaam; 
it  showed  a  wrinkled  toothless  face,  overlaid  with  the 
smiles  and  subtlety  of  centuries  of  service.  But  its  reply 
was  dazed,  forlorn. 

''This  slave  of  the  Court,"  it  mumbled,  "seeks  for  a 
tomb  that  was  but  is  not.  God  send  some  miscreant  hath 
not  taken  the  marble  slab  thereof  for  his  idolatrous  curry- 
stone  !  Lo !  I  can  find  it  nowhere,  and  the  inscription 
thereof  is  lost — is  lost!" 

A  world  of  angry  apprehension  crept  into  the  tired  blear 
old  eyes;  the  tired  old  hand  shook  visibly. 

''What  inscription?"  I  asked  idly. 

"My  inscription.  Protector  of  the  Poor!"  came  the 
tired  old  voice.  "Yea!  whatever  this  slave  of  the  Court 
said,  the  writer  Abd-un-Nubbi  copied  it." 

I  sate  up  more  alert,  vaguely  reminiscent  of  something 
I  had  seen  lately.  "What  was  it  about?"  I  queried;  this 
time  curiously. 

"About   the   Heaven-Nestled    Kings   the    slave    of   the 


SLAVE   OF   THE   COURT  305 

Court  served,'^  came  the  reply,  less  ivearily;  and,  as  if 
some  stored  memory  cylinder  had  been  set  going  by  key- 
words, the  voice  went  on.  gaining  strength:  ''This  old 
slave  of  the  Court  does  not  feel  any  shame  in  serving  the 
Kings  and  the  Nobles !  This  old  slave  of  the  Court, 
Mahmud,  supplicates  God  that  the  name  of  the  Heaven- 
Nestled  Emperor  Humayon  and  the  Heaven-Nestled 
Emperor  Akbar  may  be  perpetuated  for  all  time !  Lo ! 
may  they  have  been  given  the  robe  of  Paradise !  This 
old  slave  of  the  Court  honoured  by  the  Earth-Cherished 
Emperor  Jahangir  was  told,  '  You  have  grown  old.  Serve 
in  the  tomb  of  the  Heaven-Nestled  One  at  Delhi.' 

"Humbly  says  Mahmud,  old  slave  of  the  Court!  He 
has  come  nigh  to  ninety  years,  he  has  come  nigh  his  end. 
He  has  passed  his  life  in  luxury  and  ease  through  the  kind- 
ness of  Kings.  Oh  !  Mahmud  !  no  desire  is  left  unfulfilled. 
Of  giving  and  taking,  buying  and  selling,  bargainings  in 
the  bazaar,  all  is  done  with  now  ! 

''Lo!  in  this  seat  of  Delhi,  the  rulers  and  the  land- 
holders, the  elders  and  the  neighbours  should  entrust  this 
tomb  and  shrine  (of  which  the  total  amount  of  expenses, 
including  all  necessary  articles  and  allowances  was 
290,000  tankas)  to  those  who  are  my  heirs  and  who  deserve 
to  possess  it,  as  it  was  built  with  my  honestly-earned 
money."  The  long-drawn-out  quaintly  ungrammatical 
Persian  phrases  ceased  in  a  melancholy  refrain:  "But  it 
has  gone,  Huzoor !  Someone  has  taken  away  my  tomb- 
stone.'* 

I  knew  now  what  he  was  talking  about;  knew  why 
that  faint  message  of  memory  had  come  to  me.  I  had 
seen  this  inscription,  or  something  like  it,  in  the  Delhi 
Museum,  on  a  square  slab  of  white  marble  which  the 
catalogue  said  had  been  found  amongst  some  ruins  not  far 
from  where  we  were  sitting. 

I  looked  at  the  old  man;  though  he  himself  was  well 
on  in  years,  the  impossibility  of  his  words  made  me  pass 
over  major  points  to  cavil  at  minor  ones. 

"My  tombstone  !  "  I  echoed.  "I  suppose  you  mean  this 
King's  cook  was  a  forbear  of  yours.  You  come  of  a 
servant  family,  I  expect,  ah  !  Prince  of  Personalities." 


306  SLAVE   OF   THE    COURT 

I  gave  him  the  full  title  of  the  highest  domestic  office 
with  intent.  It  had  a  marvellous  effect.  His  bowed  back 
straightened  itself ;  he  seemed  to  sit  resplendent  in  gold- 
laced  coat  and  badge-wound  turban.  ''  The  Huzoor  speaks 
truth,"  he  said,  with  perfectly  blatant  dignity.  "  Since 
the  beginning  of  time  my  people  have  served  Kings — and 
Sahibs." 

The  last  was  a  palpable  concession  to  the  alien,  and  I 
could  not  help  smiling.  But  the  old  man,  despite  his 
toothless,  wrinkled,  wagging  head,  was  no  subject  for 
smiles.  He  sate  there  transfigured,  his  face  shiny,  an 
apotheosis  of  what  folk  nowadays  call  servility.  You  felt 
it  in  the  warm  scented  sunshine;  an  atmosphere  of  dutiful 
devotion  that  brought  a  kindly  interest  to  my  heart. 

"It  hasn't  been  taken  as  a  curry-stone,"  I  said  gravely : 
*^  it  is  quite  safe.  I  saw  it  yesterday  in  the  Wonder  House." 
And  then  I  remembered  that  my  Crowned  Head  had  paused 
over  it  to  look  and  smile.  "Yes  !  Prince  of  Personalities," 
I  went  on,  "there  it  is.  A  marble  slab  with  an  inscrip- 
tion."    So  I  went  on  to  tell  him  what  had  occurred. 

He  sate  and  listened,  gravely,  reverently,  and  when  I 
had  finished  he  rose — I  knew  he  would — and  salaamed  down 
to  the  ground. 

"This  poor  Preparer-of-Plates  is  proud  still  to  serve 
Majesty.  May  the  Earth  cherish  the  Wise  King  long! 
May  Heaven  nestle  him  when  the  time  comes  for  soul  to 
Separate  from  body." 

As  I  looked  into  the  blazing  sunshine  at  the  old,  naked, 
bald-headed  figure,  I  swear  it  seemed  to  me  clothed  upon 
with  all  the  liveries  of  all  those  centuries  of  service. 

"Lo!"  he  went  on,  "let  the  tombstone  remain  in  the 
Wonder  House  where  it  hath  been  honoured  by  the  eye- 
glances  of  Kings.  And  as  for  the  Noble  Huzoor  who  hath 
relieved   this  poor   slave   of  the   Court's  mind  concerning 

curry-stones "  he  paused,  took  up  the  remaining  posy 

from  his  basket  and  held  it  out  to  me  between  deferential 
palms.  "It  is  all  I  have,  Huzoor,  but  it  is  sweet,"  he  said 
simply,  "  and  I  have  asked  so  many  before,  and  none  could 
tell  me." 

In  sudden  impulse  I  took  it.     "I'll  tell  you  what  I'll 


SLAVE  OF  THE  COURT  307 

do,  Prince  of  Personalities!^'  I  said,  half  in  jest,  "I'll 
stop  at  the  Wonder  House  on  my  way  home  and  put  it 
on  the  tombstone.     Will  that  satisfy  you  ?  " 

Once  again  he  salaamed  to  the  ground.  "  The  gratitude 
of  this  old  slave  of  the  Court  will  go  with  the  Huzoor  all 
his  days." 

I  left  him  salaaming  still  among  the  graves.  As  I  drove 
back  I  regretted  not  having  lingered  to  pick  his  brains 
concerning  those  centuries  of  his  ancestors'  service.  Good 
stories  must  have  been  handed  down  as  heirlooms;  one 
curious  as  I  was  of  the  past  might  have  heard  much  of 
interest. 

But  holiday  vras  over.  My  Crowned  Head  had  returned, 
making  me  responsible.  In  addition,  fate  was  unkind.  My 
major-domo,  on  whose  care  during  those  strenuous  days 
when  meals  were  oft-deferred.  I  was  entirely  dependent, 
fell  sick  and  had  to  go  to  hospital.  Not,  however,  before 
he  had,  in  kindly  Indian  fashion,  found  me  a  substitute. 
Everyone  who  has  been  in  India  knows  the  type  of  pro- 
fessional cook-room  substitute.  They  are  to  be  seen  some- 
times in  old  dak  bungalows,  survivals  still  of  the  patronage 
of  other  days  when  such  posts  were  the  recognised  super- 
annuation pensions  for  civilians'  servants.  And  this 
substitute  of  mine — I  call  them  scapegoats  as  a  rule,  since 
all  the  subsequent  sins  of  omission  or  commission  in  the 
back  purlieus  are  invariably  laid  to  their  charge — differed 
in  no  way  from  the  type.  He  was  rather  more  aggressive 
in  starch  than  most.  He  had  the  biggest  of  Avhite  turbans, 
and  the  forward  bow  of  his  arched  back  was  a  little  more 
accentuated  than  usual  by  folds  on  folds  of  white 
bandaging  until  he  looked  as  if  he  were  wearing  an  extra 
sized,  new  whited  motor  tyre  round  his  waist.  But  his 
scanty  beard  was  purple  black,  and  his  eyes  were 
brightened  to  youth  with  beautiful  rims  of  antimony. 
Altogether  he  looked  his  part  to  perfection;  and  for  a 
wonder,  performed  it  also. 

My  table  servant  admitted  at  once  that  he  was  a 
''master  artificer,"  and  I,  personally,  confessed  that  never 
had  I  had  such  appetising  dinners.  Most  of  these 
substitutes  have   old-world   dishes   at  their  fingers'   ends; 

TJ  2 


308  SLAVE   OF   THE   COURT 

dishes  with  strange  names  which  philology  can  trace  back 
to  French  and  Portuguese  origin,  but  this  old  man  might 
have  come  from  a  Parisian  restaurant. 

*'  This  slave  belongs  to  a  family  of  cooks,"  he  said 
calmly,  when  I  questioned  him  as  to  where  he  had  learnt 
to  make  ^^  Petits  Timhales  de  foie  gras  a  la  Belle  Eugenie.^' 
''Therefore  the  wisdom  of  all  the  ages  is  at  his  disposal. 
When  a  slave's  mind  is  set  on  serving  his  master,  nothing 
is  impossible." 

And  nothing  seemed  to  be.  My  Inspector-General  was 
a  gourmet.  He  breakfasted  with  me  in  camp  one  morning, 
and  after  that  it  is  surprising  how  often  his  meal  times 
tallied  with  mine.  So,  in  the  course  of  a  few  days,  the 
fame  of  my  cook  became  noised  abroad ;  especially  when 
the  Crowned  Head  started  on  a  shooting  tour  and  had  to 
leave  his  French  chef  behind  him;  the  latter  not  feeling 
equal  to  camp  j&res. 

Then  the  Substitute  came  to  the  fore,  and  once  or  twice 
when  I  had  the  honour  of  dining  at  the  Royal  table,  1 
noticed  dishes  which  I  could  have  sworn  my  man  had 
prepared.  Knowing  the  curious  bond  of  brotherhood 
which  exists  in  India  between  one  cook-room  and  another, 
I  knew  this  was  quite  possible. 

We  had  some  hard  marching,  and  at  the  end  of  a  week, 
I  noticed  that  my  substitute  was  palpably  older.  The 
surma  had  worn  off  his  eyes;  there  was  a  fringe  of  grey 
beard  above  the  purple  black;  yet  still  he  looked  magni- 
ficently starched  as  he  stood  behind  my  chair  on  the 
frequent  occasions  when  the  suite  messed  with  royalty. 
Then  we  arrived  at  a  Hill  Rajah-ship  where  there  had  been 
some  trouble  during  a  long  minority  between  Palace- 
Women  and  a  Council  of  Regency;  neither  being  over- 
satisfied  with  the  Resident.  But  our  Royal  visit  was  to 
inaugurate  a  new  regime  under  a  new  young  Rajah,  and 
great  were  to  be  the  rejoicings;  amongst  other  things  a 
State  Dinner  in  the  Palace. 

We  were  a  bit  late  coming  in  from  a  shoot  after  black 
partridge,  and  I  had  a  good  many  preparations  to  make, 
as  I  was  in  police  charge,  so  that  it  was  almost  dark  ere 
I  returned  to  my  tent  to  dress  for  dinner.     To  my  surprise 


SLAVE   OF   THE   COURT  309 

I  found  the  Substitute  immaculate  one  inside.  He  was 
immaculate  as  ever,  but  he  looked  old  and  frail  and  worn. 
Still  it  needed  one  of  those  sudden  enlargements  of  per- 
sonality, which  are  so  puzzling,  to  make  the  shadows  of  the 
tent  bring  what  the  light  of  day  had  denied  to  me — 
recognition  of  the  old  man  I  had  met  amongst  the  latticed 
Tombs  of  Kings — the  man  who  had  lost  his  tombstone. 

*' You  old  scoundrel,'^  I  said.  *' Why  didn't  you  tell  me 
before  who  you  were." 

He  salaamed  a  trifle  furtively  as  he  replied,  **It  is 
nothing  to  the  master  who  his  servant  is,  so  that  the 
servant  be  faithful,  and  I  am  that.  My  gratitude  is  bound 
to  the  Huzoor  for  ever  and  ever.  So  I  came  to  ask  what 
Tasters  have  been  appointed  for  the  Earth-Cherished-One 
this  evening." 

"Tasters'?"  I  echoed.  "What  the  deuce  do  you  mean? 
Tasters  ! "  Then  it  flashed  upon  me  that  he  was  alluding 
to  the  old  "Tasters  for  Poison";  and  I  looked  at  him 
curiously.  In  the  semi-darkness  he  seemed  to  have 
shrunken,  to  be  inconceivably  old  and  frail,  so  I  went  on 
more  kindly.  "There's  no  need  for  them  nowadays,  old 
man.  They  belong  to  the  past.  The  King — God  bless 
him! — is  safe  from  that  sort  of  thing.     Thank  Heaven." 

I  was  throwing  off  my  shooting  togs  vigorously,  and 
the  answer  came  out  of  the  corner  of  the  tent,  as  it  were, 
vaguely. 

"  So  said  Firdoos  Makani,  the  Sainted  Babar  in 
Paradise,  yet  he  had  to  live  a  full  month  on  lily  leaves, 
and  the  Heaven-Nestled  One  the  Emperor  Humayon  was 
also—" 

"Look  here  !  old  chap  !  "  I  said,  divided  between  haste 
and  the  desire  to  tap  these  old  stories.  "You  shall  tell 
rae  all  that  to-morrow.  At  present  I  must  be  off  to  the 
Palace  to  see  all  is  right."  Then  I  laughed.  "Other 
days  other  manners.  Ah !  descendant  of  Mahmud  the 
King's  Cook!  we  have  to  look  after  bombs,  not  poisons, 
nowadays." 

The  answer  came  faintly  to  me,  "The  wickedness  of 
men's  hearts  is  ever  the  same,  Huzoor!" 

I  do  not  think  I  ever  saw  a  prettier  entertainment.     The 


310  SLAVE   OF   THE   COUET 

long-eyed  lazy-looking  young  Rajah  must  have  had  the 
blood  of  past  sybarites  in  his  veins,  for  he  had  enhanced 
Oriental  splendour  with  Western  refinement  to  perfection. 

Having  seen  by  a  glance  that  all  my  detectives  were  in 
their  places,  knowing  also  the  infinite  precautions  which 
had  been  secretly  taken  on  all  sides,  and  feeling  fairly 
secure  of  the  young  ruler's  personal  loyalty,  I  felt  I  might 
enjoy  myself,  and  I  did.  The  champagne  was  iced  to 
perfection,  the  illuminations  glimmered  softly  away  into 
the  gloom  of  the  lake,  a  band  of  native  musicians,  beauti- 
fully trained,  discoursed  plaintive  love  songs  on  native 
instruments  deftly  entuned  to  almost  Western  modulations, 
the  dinner  was  super-excellent,  a  combination  of  Eastern 
and  Western  delicacies,  and  there  was  not  one  single  hitch 
in  the  arrangements,  except  for  a  slight  contretemps,  due, 
apparently,  to  short-sightedness  on  the  part  of  my 
venerable  Scapegoat.  He  collided  with  the  State  servant 
who  was  handing  a  special  tray  of  curried  koftahs  to  the 
Crowned  Head,  with  the  result  that  the  Crowned  Head 
did  not  even  get  a  taste  of  it.  But  the  accident  only 
raised  a  moment's  laugh.  The  debris  was  cleared  away  in 
a  twinkling,  and  I  caught  sight  of  the  offender's  scared 
protesting  face  as  he  was  hustled  away  from  further 
mischief. 

After  dinner  we  had  a  really  excellent  pantomime  in 
dumb  show  by  native  actors,  so  it  was  past  midnight  ere 
I  returned  to  my  tent.  I  found  my  Chief  Inspector,  a  man 
I  could  really  trust,  a  man  w^hose  wide  experience  was  of 
infinite  use  to  me,  standing  outside. 

"A  report,  Huzoor ! "  he  said  briefly,  and  I  passed  into 
the  office.  He  looked  all  round,  carefully  closed  the 
screens,  and  then  began  in  a  low  voice : 

"  Huzoor  !  When  your  Honour's  servant  upset  the  State 
servant  and  his  dish,  I  was  close  by.  There  was  a  look 
on  your  Honour's  servant's  face  I  did  not  understand. 
They  scrambled  instantly  for  the  A-o/'fa/is— scrambled  hastily 
— to  pick  them  up.  But  I  got  one,  Huzoor.  I  gave  it  to 
a  dog;  and  Huzoor!  the  dog  is  dead!" 

I  could   scarcely  speak.     ''Dead!  ye   Gods!"    Then  I 


SLAVE   OF   THE   COUKT  311 

remembered  that  the  dog  would  be  needful  evidence,  and 
said  at  once,  ''Where  is  the  body?     Bring  it  here.'^ 

But,  if  there  had  been  a  conspiracy  to  poison,  the  con- 
spirators had  been  too  quick  for  us.  The  corpus  delicti 
was  not  where  it  had  been  left.  Neither  was  the  Substitute 
to  be  found.  The  other  servants  reported  that,  overcome 
with  shame  at  his  unpardonable  offence  in  depriving  an 
Earth-Cherished-One  of  his  victuals,  he  had  retired  into 
the  wilderness.     Whence  he  never  returned. 

My  Inspector-General  used  to  bewail  the  Petits  Timhales 
de  foie  gras  a  la  Belle  Eugenie.  But  I  have  never  ceased  to 
wonder.  And  every  time  I  go  to  Delhi  I  go  to  the  Wonder 
House  and  lay  a  posy  on  the  tombstone  of  Mahmud,  the 
old  Slave  of  the  Court. 

The  gratitude  was  to  be  for  ever  and  ever;  so  there  is 
time  for  more  yet. 


Jas.  Truscott  &  Son,  Ltd.,  London,  E.G. 


RETURN  TO  the  circulation  desk  of  any 

University  of  California  Library 

or  to  the 

NORTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 
BIdg.  400,  Richmond  Field  Station 
University  of  California 
Richmond,  CA  94804-4698 

ALL  BOOKS  MAY  BE  RECALLED  AFTER  7  DAYS 
2-month  loans  may  be  renewed  by  calling 

(415)642-6233 
1-year  loans  may  be  recharged  by  bringing  books 

to  NRLF 
Renewals  and  recharges  may  be  made  4  days 

prior  to  due  date 

DUE  AS  STAMPED  BELOW 


M  1 8 1989 


T.r>  21-100*"'^''^^ 


Vo 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAUFORNIA  UBRARY 


